


A Sliver of Ice, a Beam of Hope

by gideonbd



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Bisexuality, Drama, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Sweet Revenge, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-20
Updated: 2011-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:52:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 104,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gideonbd/pseuds/gideonbd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been almost six months since Starsky’s reinstatement as a BCPD homicide detective, and Hutch is no longer sure how long he can endure this extra-tetchy, morose, antagonistic version of his partner who seems to find a perverse delight in pissing him off for no reason whatsoever. Like Starsky can’t stand his physical presence. Like Starsky wants to drive him away and preserve a <i>respectable</i> distance between them after months of him hanging around Starsky throughout Starsky’s arduous recuperation. Like Starsky is <i>fighting</i> him, fighting him when there isn’t a conflict to begin with, or fighting <i>something</i> that has to do with him.</p><p>It makes no fucking sense to Hutch at all. None of it.</p><p>And Starsky thinks <i>he’s</i> the weird one?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress. I'm estimating it'll hit at least 80-90,000+ words by the time it's done. This is by far my most explicit S&H story yet, and yeah, there are more NC-17 scenes coming up! Oh, and while you're reading this story, keep in mind the pairing listed, okay? I will say no more. *grin*
> 
> Important note: The story is now being updated in the 'next chapter' page. Technically there are no chapters since this is supposed to be a long one-shot story, so please ignore the 'Chapter 1' and 'Chapter 2' titles. I don't know how to edit those out.

Once upon a time, there was a little boy who had silken hair like spun gold and big blue eyes as brilliant as a cloudless, sunny sky. The little boy lived on a farm in a realm of four seasons with his mommy and daddy who took care of magnificent horses that leapt into the air as if they had wings like birds. The farm of magnificent horses had belonged to his grandfather, his daddy’s dad. The little boy was happy. He was happy and light and free as the horses his mommy and daddy trained, fed and sheltered in barns behind their cozy home that seemed a palace to him.

The little boy was happy, for he did not know what loss meant and he did not know what aging meant and why time stopped for no one, not even for his great and tall daddy who was king of his world.

Then one day, mommy and daddy had to leave home for a while. To visit some friends of theirs in another realm, they told him, and so, every day that mommy and daddy were away, he sat at the window in his bedroom and read his storybooks and gazed outside at the steel gates of his home. He waited for them to open, for mommy and daddy to come back and bring him back presents from another realm and hug him and tell him they loved him.

One day, the steel gates of his home opened. A black and white car with blue and red lights on top drove through them and up to his home. His minder, a lady like his mommy, opened the door and there were two men in dark blue clothes with their hats in their hands. They were guardians of the land and the law. They were telling his minder something, but he didn’t understand what they were saying or why his minder started to cry. One of the guardians knelt down in front of him and ruffled his hair. He didn’t know why the man’s smile was so sad. He didn’t understand what the man meant, that mommy and daddy weren’t coming back and someone else was going to take care of him and make sure he was alright.

Mommy and daddy always came back home. Mommy and daddy promised him they would.

So, in another room in another house that wasn’t his home, he sat at the window and gazed outside at tall buildings and people he didn’t know and waited for mommy and daddy to come back and take him home. He waited for a very long time. Different people drove him to different houses in different cars. He didn’t know anyone and nobody knew him or listened to him when he pleaded to go home to be with mommy and daddy. He waited for a very long time for his mommy and daddy to find him and hug him and tell him they loved him but they never came, and one day, he stopped waiting for them.

He stopped waiting for them and started wishing for something else, for the magical mirror of a Snow Queen who travelled the world with the snow and had an enchanted palace and vast ice gardens in the lands of permafrost. The mirror’s magic made the heart cold and strong. It made the heart cold and _strong_ and took away the _pain_ inside it, and he really wanted this magical mirror – or even just a sliver of it – because the pain inside his heart wouldn’t go away no matter how much he cried or screamed or smashed everything in his hands. He wished and wished and _wished_ every single day for it. He wished with all he had that the chill of the magical mirror would take away the pain inside his heart. Take away everything in it, if it meant the hurting stopped.

And one day, eventually, his wish came true.

 

& & & & & &

 

Hutch is shocked into silence that he is where he is right now, here on his back on his bed in his Venice Beach canal cottage with Starsky – his incredibly masculine, fucking _hot_ and _naked_ partner and best friend – straddling his hips and lowering himself onto his rock-hard cock. He’s naked too. His skin is covered in a sheen of sweat after all the kissing and _licking_ and _sucking_ of each other’s bodies and oh fuck, the head of his cock is disappearing into Starsky’s tight heat and Starsky’s stunning blue eyes are shut and Starsky is groaning and spreading those lean legs wider as if Starsky really, _really_ wants to be filled to the innermost core with _him_.

“Oh god … Hutch … _Hutch_ …”

Starsky is staring down at him through those lush, dark eyelashes now, mouth open as if his cock’s entering it as well and it _had_ entered Starsky’s mouth just minutes – or was it _hours?_ – ago when they were still on the couch in the living room and they’d been watching but not really watching some late night movie he doesn’t remember at all. One moment they’d been sitting side by side on the cushions, the next moment Starsky’s left hand was on his thigh and then Starsky was kneeling on the floor between his legs and pressing a head of short, dark curls against his burgeoning groin and then, _then_ Starsky was unzipping his jeans and tugging down his underwear and enveloping the first couple of inches of his erection with those _lips_ and then here they are, doing what neither of them ever imagined they’d do with each other and enjoying the _fuck_ out of it.

“Oh, _oh_ … so fucking _big_ … _oh Hutch_ …”

Half his cock inside Starsky, and already he’s nearing the brink, gasping and gripping Starsky’s hips with both hands and locking gazes with Starsky.

“Starsk … _Starsky_ , don’t – you don’t h-have to –“

Starsky makes an odd sound that’s an amalgam of an amused laugh and a low groan.

“Yeah, Hutch … like you’re – _aahh_ – like you’re gonna just _pull out_ when you – when you look like _that_.”

A challenge, if Hutch has ever heard one, and it’s a challenge he knows he’s lost before he can even accept it and Starsky _knows_ it. Starsky’s sinking down some more, down, down and both of them are panting hard, working together like they always do, pushing in synchronization and then he’s _in_ , all the way.

“You’re _inside_ me. _All of you_ ,” Starsky whispers.

While Starsky’s right hand is grabbing his left shoulder, Starsky’s left hand has flown from his other shoulder to press against a trim lower belly, precisely over where his cock is filling Starsky up so deep and _good_. Starsky, filled up and split wide open by no other, never the same again.

“Starsk …”

“Want you, Hutch ... _want you_. Now. Please.”

Oh god, oh fuck, Starsky’s clenching around him, like a fist, squeezing all the caution and apprehension out of him and his hips move on their own accord and pull back, just a little, and then shoves back in and he can feel Starsky opening up even more, feel the tremor of sheer pleasure coursing like lightning through Starsky’s arching body. Sweat has broken out on Starsky’s furred chest. It’s also running down the side of Starsky’s flushed face, plummeting from that strong jaw onto his own flushed face and neck.

Hutch tries to say something in return, something like _I want you so much too_ , something like _I love you_ , but his voice has fled him and his body is speaking on his behalf instead. He lifts Starsky by the hips, pulls out again, completely, and then plunges in to the hilt in one stroke and then he’s thrusting hard and fast and Starsky is clinging onto his shoulders again and cries out with each slam of his hips. So fucking gorgeous, the way Starsky’s meeting his every stroke, eagerly swallowing him up until there’s nothing left of him outside, grinding down against him and swiveling those graceful hips until they’re moaning in unison and _god_ , can this really be the first time Starsky’s ever done this? Is he that lucky enough a bastard to be the only man in the world to see and hear and _feel_ Starsky this way?

Starsky’s writhing, shouting, and when he wraps one hand around Starsky’s rigid erection and works it from base to its leaking head, Starsky slams down on and around him one last time, stiffens and comes like a geyser all over his stomach and chest, bright and scorching-hot and breath-taking. The lightning surges from Starsky into him and with vestiges of strength he hadn’t known he has left, he raises his upper body and gathers a Starsky gone limp into his arms. He pushes one last time into Starsky, his mind blown to nirvana as he shoots his seed, his everything, inside his partner.

Still cradling Starsky in his arms, he falls back onto the bed. His head hits the pillow with an audible _whoomph_. Starsky is still panting, a soft whimper marking the end of each breath, and Hutch listens to them along with his own thundering heartbeat and feels the luxuriance of Starsky’s thick hair brushing his cheek and lower jaw and breathes in the scent of a replete, utterly relaxed and thoroughly fucked – no, _loved_ – Starsky.

Beautiful. So damn beautiful.

He caresses Starsky’s back, from expansive shoulders to those ample buttocks and revels in the smooth skin, in the bunching of firm muscles underneath his palms and fingers. It’s all his, _all_ his.

“Starsky –“

Starsky’s fingers are suddenly over his mouth.

“ _Sshh_ , no, don’t talk.”

Starsky’s voice is rusty, as if Starsky hasn’t spoken in eons. As if Starsky is afraid that his voice will shatter … something.

“Starsk –“

“Don’t talk, Hutch. Please, don’t, just …” Starsky is staring down at him again, into his eyes but there’s _something_ lurking behind Starsky’s, something that shouldn’t be there when they’ve just made love – the best lovemaking Hutch has ever experienced yet in his life – and they’ve just gone to heaven and back, together. “Just _kiss_ me, huh?”

Even in the diffused light of the bedside lamp, Hutch sees the glistening of Starsky’s eyes. Before he can speak again, Starsky’s lips are crushed against his and Starsky’s tongue is delving into his mouth and there is a desperation in the kiss, in Starsky’s stroking of his face and neck and chest, like Starsky’s scared that everything’s going to end and he’s going to disappear. He can’t help responding, rolling them so Starsky is lying face up on the bed now, wrapping those legs around his waist and still kissing him and robbing him of his breath and his sanity and control.

Starsky is still slick with lube and his _semen_ , still loosened enough that three of his fingers slide into Starsky with little resistance. Starsky moans and arches off the bed, electrified from the inside out, constricting around his fingers and reminding him of the rapture he already misses like crazy. Into his lips, Starsky rasps, “Fuck me, babe. Give it to me good and _hard_ ,” and the lust – the _love_ – in Starsky’s voice drives him wild, drives him to spread Starsky’s legs high and far apart and haul Starsky by the waist onto his lap, bending Starsky to his complete mercy.

“Yeah, c’mon, Hutch, _c’mo_ -oh, oh, _OOH_ –“

Oh fuck, _fuck_ , Starsky’s still so damn hot and _tight_ and taking him in so _perfectly_ like he was made to fit deep inside Starsky, inside where there’s no room for anyone else except him and his greatest joys and his darkest fears. He plunges in unrelentingly, unable to restrain himself, until the blond wisps of hair on his groin are scraping Starsky’s skin and Starsky is throwing his head back and biting on his left hand balled into a fist and _keening_ anyway.

Then there’s no more talking, only raw sounds of _need_ , of rapid, near-violent thrusts in and out, in and out and _in_ , getting the right angle and directly striking that special spot that leaves Starsky gasping for breath and calling out his name in a litany. Yeah, _yeah_ , that’s it, that’s what he wants to hear, his Starsky adrift in a storm of pleasure, a storm of _his_ making. He maintains his pistoning motion and fluid rhythm, gasping for air himself, and he leans down and kisses Starsky on the cheek, on the lips and licks the sweat off Starsky’s bared neck. Nips down the length of that neck, then bites the left side, over the hammering pulse, just enough that Starsky quivers from head to toe and lets out a sharp cry of assent.

 _Mine_ , Hutch thinks to himself. _All mine._

This time, Starsky comes without any warning whatsoever, clamping so hard and oh so _good_ around him that he yells and comes as well and rides the waves of ecstasy with Starsky, keeping his eyes peeled open so he can watch stark white semen fountaining from Starsky’s cock and splattering Starsky’s heaving chest and the downy hair on it. It takes him a minute to realize that Starsky is watching him too, doing his best to keep those _stunning_ eyes open and drink in the sight of him in the throes of an overwhelming orgasm and once he’s floating down from nirvana for the second time tonight, he leans down again to kiss those eyes and that prominent nose that he loves so much and those lips that widen into such charismatic smiles that he loves likewise.

Starsky’s fingers are carding through his hair. Starsky is murmuring something against his forehead but he can’t hear what Starsky’s saying and he closes his eyes, just for a while. When he opens them once more, to mere slits, it is dawn and Starsky is already in a black t-shirt and jeans and sitting on the side of the bed putting on red socks. Hutch thinks that this should be the moment he sits up and greets Starsky with a good morning kiss … but something – the same something he saw in Starsky’s eyes last night – is telling him that won’t be a smart move and it perturbs him although he can’t explain why. He lets his eyes droop shut again. He does it in the nick of time for Starsky is turning around on the bed to look at him. He can sense Starsky’s gaze travelling from his face to his neck and bare shoulders, down to his bare chest and then to his flat belly upon which his left forearm and hand are resting above the edge of a blanket. The gaze touches him like a physical caress, like Starsky is literally recording him, piece by piece, into memory forever.

Starsky studies him for some time. Minutes probably, but to Hutch who’s yearning for Starsky’s hands and mouth, for Starsky’s _everything_ , it feels like centuries.

Starsky crawls across the bed, sitting next to him, gazing down at him.

Then, a kiss on his forehead, a kiss of such sweetness and tenderness that beneath his eyelids, his eyes burn wetly.

And then Starsky is slithering off the bed and exiting the cottage soundlessly save for the click of the door, leaving Hutch to stare at it with a heavy heart until the sunlight seeping through the curtains and onto his face can’t be ignored anymore.

 

& & & & & &

 

One month, and Hutch has made love to Starsky at least once or more every two to three days throughout that time. Every session begins the same way: Starsky makes the initial move, usually in his cottage, be it a hand gliding its way up Hutch’s thigh to his already hard cock or a glance brimming with lust from those big, sultry eyes or a full body press from behind, Starsky plastering himself to his back and nuzzling the side of his neck and shoulder, and he reacts accordingly. The first couple of times they made love, Hutch had simply seized Starsky’s hand and rushed them both to the bed where he’d tear off Starsky’s clothes and devour every inch of Starsky’s skin he could reach till Starsky was a mindless, helpless, quavering heap of desire, begging him to fuck him fast and hard.

And fuck Starsky fast and hard he does, every time Starsky implores him in that vulnerable, undeniable tone, without fail. Every experience so far has been nothing short of _amazing_ , but their most recent bout of lovemaking, about four days ago, is the one that has stuck in the forefront of Hutch’s mind lately.

Starsky had to go to court that day, to take the stand for a robbery case. He’d worn a suit, a dark grey suit with a red tie the same color as his beloved Torino and _damn_ if Starsky all debonair and professional didn’t get his blood boiling and give him a serious case of sore blue balls. When Starsky did what he had to do and was out of the building and getting into his Ford LTD just before lunch, all it took was one searing glance from Starsky for Hutch to stomp on the accelerator and drive them back to his cottage at Mach 10 speed. (Of course, Starsky would argue that it’s impossible for his car to even reach a mildly dangerous speed before disintegrating into a pile of junk, much less reach Mach 10, but both of them had other much more _important_ matters on their minds then.)

They never made it to the bed. After kicking the front door shut and locking it, Hutch had swept Starsky up into his arms and dashed to the living room and thrown the sputtering guy onto the couch and yanked off Starsky’s shoes, pants and underwear before Starsky could articulate any sensible words. Even as Starsky babbled about the bed being more comfortable and less likely a location for them to fall on their heads or accidentally break something useful, Hutch was manhandling Starsky onto hands and knees on the couch, his cock so fucking hard in his jeans and ready to drill Starsky into the floor at the vision of Starsky’s exposed, well-padded rear sticking up in the air. He dug between the cushions for the tube of lubricant he’d stashed there, pressing his cheek against one side of Starsky’s buttocks, biting it gently when Starsky whined for Hutch to hurry up, doing it again when Starsky cried out and bucked his hips. What a hot, _hot_ man his partner was, so open and _receptive_ towards his every touch and kiss and word.

He lubed himself up but not Starsky, coating his erection liberally and he gave Starsky the chance to just glance over a shoulder at him and then, still fully clad but with jeans unzipped and bunched around his thighs, swathing Starsky on top from head to the back of spread thighs, he aimed his cock at the entrance into Starsky’s lithe body and pushed in, no halting, no hesitation till his groin was flush against Starsky’s bottom. _Ooh_ god, Starsky felt even tighter, and Starsky definitely felt the burn of his relentless thrust, toes curling, moaning loudly and shuddering and arching against him.

Guilt engulfed him immediately.

He hugged Starsky’s clothed torso with his left arm and stammered into Starsky’s ear, “Starsky, I … d-did I hurt you?”

His guilt rocketed at Starsky not answering him and collapsing face forward onto the cushions, arms too weak to hold himself up. Starsky was still shuddering, like a newborn foal incapable of even the effort to stand up, and Hutch began to panic and withdraw.

“No!”

Muffled as it was in a cushion, Starsky’s reply – Starsky’s _command_ – ingrained itself on Hutch’s brain in a millisecond. He arrested all movement, still deep inside Starsky, trembling like Starsky and oh, Starsky is digging fingers into his left hip, encouraging him forward and Starsky’s clutching his left hand now and dragging it down to a cock as unyielding as iron and curving up towards Starsky’s abdomen, enfolding his hand around its throbbing base and _oh fuck_ , Starsky’s hurting, alright, hurting big time for his equally unyielding cock embedded in Starsky’s ass.

“Gonna come. Gonna come so hard my head’s gonna _explode_ ,” Starsky murmured, having turned his head to the side, eyelids fluttering and Hutch gave the base of Starsky’s erection a squeeze, not letting go as Starsky abruptly convulsed and whimpered and spurted a tiny amount of pre-come onto his hand.

“You’ll come … when I _let_ you come,” Hutch growled. He was inwardly surprised at the stability of his own voice, surprised that he himself hadn’t already come from feeling Starsky’s muscular, bowed body wracked by a massive almost-orgasm held at bay solely by his left hand. God _damn_ , every time he figured there was no way he could be more turned on by his partner, his best friend in the whole world, Starsky just _had_ to blow him away with something even _hotter_.

“Oh god, oh god, oh Hutch, _Hutch_ , fuck me, Hutch. _Fuck me!_ ”

Hutch waited. Panted, waited and then tortured them both for a millennia by pulling out and sliding back in so, so slowly, battling the frantic clenching of Starsky’s inner muscles along his cock with every ounce of willpower he had, resting his upper body on top of Starsky’s and using his right hand to grip Starsky’s waist and hinder Starsky from moving. He took immense satisfaction in seeing Starsky sink pearly teeth into a full lower lip, seeing Starsky’s fingers claw at the couch and hearing Starsky’s carnal hisses and gasps.

Hutch waited, waited for the signal.

“Hutch … _please_.”

There it was, that one word, whispered so exquisitely. Hutch started to shake, in that really good way when his body was about to burst into swift, heart-drumming action, and then he was tangling his fingers in the collars of Starsky’s white dress shirt and jacket, raising Starsky’s upper body off the cushions, pushing the wet, hot head of his cock at the wrinkled entrance of Starsky’s body once more. Pushing in, in, _in_ , stretching Starsky _there_ and _inside_ and _boom_ , his hips were snapping back and forth, setting a punishing pace, driving a thrashing, hoarsely and incessantly moaning Starsky out of his damn mind.

Oh damn, damndamn _damn_ , Starsky’s ass was clasping his cock so snugly, as if Starsky didn’t want to ever let him go, as if Starsky never wanted this to be over. Starsky’s cock was dripping more and more pre-come, all over his hand and onto the couch and the instant Hutch released Starsky’s cock, the _instant_ his fingers detached themselves from Starsky’s mouth-watering, aching length, Starsky came with the ferocity of a firing cannon, blasting semen all over the velour of the couch and screaming his name to the invisible stars above and oh shit, oh damn, _oh fuuuuck_ , there he went with Starsky, hurtling to the highest level of paradise, pumping falteringly into Starsky who’d collapsed onto the cushions again.

Hutch stayed deep inside, breathless, his instincts compelling him to brace himself on straightened arms to keep his weight off Starsky, shaky as they were. Starsky was motionless, quiet, arms folded under a lax body, legs splayed, the right leg hanging off the couch and trailing the floor. It astonished Hutch that Starsky came so fiercely that he blacked out, astonished and _gratified_ him so much that he could give that much pleasure to Starsky.

_I love you, Starsky. I love you._

He traced the length of Starsky’s right leg with his fingertips as he patiently awaited Starsky’s return to consciousness, from the rounded heel of a foot still in its nearly knee-high black sock, up shapely calf muscle, lingering on the smoothness of the back of the knee then up the back of a sturdy thigh with such soft skin on its inner side. He gave Starsky’s right buttock a squeeze, marveling at its suppleness. Feeling steady enough, he lowered himself on top of Starsky, planting affectionate kisses on the nape of Starsky’s neck above the dress shirt’s collar, tonguing the rim of Starsky’s ear. Whispering words of eternal love and devotion into said ear, words Starsky wouldn’t allow him to speak, especially after their physical unions of that love.

When Starsky’s eyes flickered open, Hutch tried to speak them once again, despite knowing the inevitable outcome.

“Starsky, I –“

Once again, Starsky’s fingers were pressed against his lips, hushing him.

“Don’t talk, Hutch. Please.”

Hutch was getting tired of this … _avoidance_. It just wasn’t like Starsky to shut him up like this when he wanted to share his most intimate thoughts, when he and Starsky talked just fine with each other while on duty and _listened_ to each other and didn’t brush each other _off_.

“ _Starsky_ , why _can’t_ we talk about th-“

“No! Just, _no_ , okay?” Starsky was squirming onto his side beneath him, dislodging him from the haven of Starsky’s bottom and both of them made low noises of disappointment at the separation, Starsky more so. “Please?”

Starsky was gazing up at him with wide, ingenuous eyes now, eyes that beseeched him to comply with that one simple request and Hutch was torn, trapped between longing to demand for answers anyway and respecting Starsky’s entreaty, trapped between a fallen angel and the deep, blue cold.

They stared into each other’s eyes for a minute, their breaths the only sound in the air.

“Okay … okay.”

Upon Hutch’s mumbled reply, Starsky flopped back onto the couch, holding his hands close against a broad chest and drawing him down to lie with his full weight on Starsky’s back. Starsky didn’t object to him kissing his ear and temple and cheek. Neither did Starsky object to him entwining their legs on the cushions like Starsky had entwined their fingers and squashed their hands and forearms between Starsky’s torso and the couch.

Starsky hadn’t objected to anything that didn’t involve talking that day.

Tonight, face to face with Starsky, Hutch is getting _really_ tired of the No Talking About What’s Going On rule.

“So what brings you here tonight, Blondie?”

Here, to be specific, is Starsky’s Ridgeway apartment, with its prints of vintage cars and an actual working traffic light and barber pole and posters on white walls. A place Hutch has visited numerous times since they’ve been partnered up as homicide detectives of the BCPD. A place at which he has eaten numerous meals with Starsky, watched television numerous times with Starsky. Slept over, even, on the couch after exhausting days of cracking cases and too much celebratory drink at night.

A place where Hutch has yet to make love with Starsky.

Until tonight. If Hutch finally gets to call the shots too.

Isn’t that how things are supposed to be between lovers? Aren’t lovers who love each other supposed to be _equals?_

“Wanted to see you,” Hutch says in a low, husky voice, gazing explicitly at Starsky’s face and strangely, Starsky – attired in a denim shirt half buttoned up and jeans – responds with nothing more than what appears to be a nervous smile and an ambiguous shrug.

“S’always great to have you around,” Starsky says, smile becoming more genuine, becoming blinding and _inviting_ and to Hutch, it is the signal he’s been waiting for. _Dying_ for.

He crosses the living room with hasty steps and embraces Starsky forcefully, his lips seeking out Starsky’s, discovering them parted and moist and so _ready_ for him. Starsky’s hands are flat on his chest, pressing against it and for a second, they seem to Hutch to be trying to jostle him away but that can’t be, they’re lovers and Starsky _loves_ him and absolutely relishes their bouts of lovemaking and oh, oh _yeah_ , Starsky’s arms are going around his shoulders now, around his neck and then they’re on Starsky’s couch, savagely ripping at each other’s clothes.

Hutch flips Starsky onto his back and nibbles and licks and suckles his way down Starsky’s neck and chest and nipples as he unfastens the other buttons of Starsky’s shirt. Four days, just _four days_ and yet it’s as if it’s been hundreds of years since he last tasted Starsky on his tongue or felt Starsky’s chest hair tickling his nose and cheeks or felt Starsky wriggling under him like this, tossing that head of cropped, dark curls on the cushions.

“Oh, Starsky … Starsky, my gorgeous _Starsky_ …”

Starsky’s fingers are in his hair, wrenching it, and Hutch can’t decide if Starsky’s trying to guide him lower down the delicious body displayed before him or trying to pull him away. And why would Starsky do that, why –

“Hutch, please don’t talk, _don’t_ –“

Hutch doesn’t quite hear what Starsky’s saying. He’s totally focused on licking a path down the linea alba of Starsky’s abdomen, following the treasure trail to the copper button and zip of Starsky’s jeans that he pops with his fingers and tugs down with his teeth.

“Do you know how much I think about you, Starsky? How much you mean to me?”

He’s peeled Starsky’s jeans down to mid-thigh, watching Starsky’s erection straining within its cotton confines, watching the stain of pre-come expanding across the snug cloth.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, _dreaming_ about you –“

“ _Please_ , _don’t_ –“

“I could be with you like this forev-“

“ _DON’T!_ ”

Starsky’s yell, so piercing with anger, stabs him in the heart like a sword of ice. Hutch flinches and topples backwards and lands hard on his ass on the living room floor, breathing hard. Starsky is breathing just as harshly, sitting up on the couch, putting some distance between them by drawing up legs squeezed together against a heaving chest, by nestling into the backrest of the couch.

Hutch stares up in silence at a Starsky who won’t look at him for about thirty seconds before his mouth betrays him.

“Don’t what? Don’t _what_ , Starsky?” Hutch asks, his calm tone edged with steel. “Don’t make _love_ to you? Don’t tell you that I lo-“

Starsky’s next yell is even more piercing, jagged and lethal and rending wider the wound to his heart.

“We’re just _buddies_ fucking around! That’s all! It – it doesn’t _mean_ anything, okay?! We’re _straight_ guys, Hutch! We love _women!_ ”

Hutch once believed that no pain could ever match the pain he’d felt from his parents’ untimely death but he’s wrong, so very wrong after all for deep within the recesses of his heart, where that sword of ice had stabbed him, is a cold, cold sliver of something terrible and powerful that has been biding its time for reemergence. Biding its time for the day its owner suffers that horrible, horrible pain again – that pain of the permanent loss of love and _completeness_ – the day it receives its opportunity to grow and grow and encase the heart in which it’s entrenched and turn it cold and strong and free of pain.

Free of everything.

“Buddies fucking around,” he says, calm as ever though the edge is gone, staring at a spot on the couch next to Starsky’s elbow. “Just buddies.”

“Hutch, we – we’re _straight_. We’re not _gay_.”

“Yes … You’re right. We’re buddies. That’s … good enough.” From far, far away, Hutch senses Starsky’s head snapping up towards him, but he continues to stare at that spot on the couch, frozen in his pose. Frozen inside. “I’m sorry. It was my mistake.”

“Hutch?”

Starsky sounds so small. So … _lost_.

Hutch stands up in a single, elegant movement, not glancing once in Starsky’s direction. He smooths down his white t-shirt and buttons up his flannel shirt as he saunters away from the couch towards the apartment front door, his back straight, his head held high and his shoulders squared. He is eerily composed, eerily devoid of any emotion, even fury. Even sorrow.

“Hutch!”

Hutch’s hand is on the door knob, but he turns around, his face shadowed. He sees Starsky standing a dozen feet away, jeans zipped up, denim shirt still spread open, still exhibiting that incredible, well-built body, a body he’ll never make love to again.

Truly, a fallen angel.

“Hey, _hey_ , look, you – you don’t have to go.” Starsky takes a few steps towards him, then wavers, crossing fidgety arms over that furry chest he’ll never caress again. “How about we grab something to eat and –“

“I think it’s best that I leave now.”

“Oh. Yeah … okay.”

Hutch doesn’t understand why Starsky is hugging himself like that, like Starsky’s _this_ close to splintering into a multitude of shards when none of this _means_ anything to Starsky. Just buddies who were fucking around, right? Isn’t that what Starsky said himself?

Hutch turns back to the door and opens it. The illumination from the rows of houses surrounding Starsky’s apartment is soaking into the night sky above, tinting the darkness with orange and yellow. It looks to be another serene, uneventful night for Starsky’s neighborhood.

“ _Hutch!_ ”

Hutch doesn’t turn around this time.

“We … we’re still pals, right?” A pause, and then Starsky asks in an oddly croaky voice, “We’re still _partners_ , right?”

“Of course we are.”

There is a miniscule part of Hutch, a part rapidly vanishing beneath a stratum of snow, that is astounded at the evenness, the coolness of his voice. Coolness as blistering as permafrost.

“I’ll – I’ll pick you up tomorrow?”

“Sure. See you tomorrow.” Hutch turns his head to the side, just a bit. “Good night, Starsky.”

The click of the door shutting behind him echoes with a blunt finality. He walks down the stairs to the ground floor unhurriedly, staring fixedly ahead at a blurry world as he passes Starsky’s Torino to his battered car. He feels nothing, nothing at all, and curses the frigid wind of summer for the stinging of his eyes and the rain from an unclouded, starlit sky for the dampness spilling down his face.

 

& & & & & &

 

Five years, gone in the blink of an eye. Five years, and Hutch’s heart resides in a fortress of impenetrable ice surrounded by vast gardens of snow, untouched save for the rare occasions when Hutch had foolishly permitted himself to consider a future – a house in the suburbs, 2.5 kids, a pet dog or two and all that – with a girlfriend. A girlfriend like Jeannie, beautiful Jeannie with her flowing, blonde hair who’d been a drug lord’s former girl, a drug lord who forced her to return to him by stringing Hutch out on heroin. A girlfriend like Abby, sweet Abby with whom he thought he had an actual shot at for some sort of happiness, who left him after psycho killer Tommy Marlowe assaulted her in Hutch’s apartment and replaced her love with fear.

A girlfriend like Gillian, lovely Gillian with hair as thick and blonde as Jeannie’s, who’d turned out to be a prostitute giving other men handjobs and blowjobs and her body behind his back. A girlfriend who was murdered in cold blood in her own apartment and discovered that way by Starsky.

Starsky, whom he had punched across the face for daring to tell him the truth about her.

Starsky, who had then embraced him with open arms and comforted him while he cried.

Starsky, his partner. His best friend.

His friend, just a friend. Nothing more. Starsky has certainly reminded him of that, time and again, with his own share of women. Beautiful women, all of them, beautiful, appealing, curvaceous and _female_. Always female, and nothing at all like Hutch, and Hutch is fine with that. Hutch is _grateful_ for that. Starsky deserves someone he can love, someone he can marry, who can bear him children and live with him and their children and a pet dog or two in a house in the suburbs. Not Hutch. Hutch can’t give him any of that.

Starsky’s his friend. Just a friend, nothing more, and if Hutch ever risks committing the ultimate idiocy of even _thinking_ about Starsky as more than a friend again, all Hutch has to do is recall Starsky’s poorly reined-in aversion when Starsky’s childhood mentor and their friend, Lieutenant John Blaine, was outed as a closeted homosexual after he was suffocated to death in a seedy motel and they had to interview Blaine’s lover, Peter Whitelaw, a former teacher running for public office. The way Starsky had gaped at Whitelaw’s banners exclaiming ‘ _A gay candidate for a straight deal!_ ’, the way Starsky blatantly did his damnest to avoid looking at Whitelaw, like he itched to get the hell away from the homosexual man, had made it very tempting to Hutch to say some choice words to Starsky.

Like, _hey Starsky, scared people will take one look at you and know how much you loved getting fucked hard and fast in the ass?_

But as quickly as he thought them, Hutch had mortared the damning words with a planet’s worth of snow and entombed them into non-existence. No. _No_ , no thinking of Starsky in that way. Not anymore.

And should Hutch still forget that, Starsky has no qualms about reminding him of it whenever he gets too near for Starsky’s comfort to Starsky’s ass. Starsky would snarl at him, “What are you _doing_ back there?” or stiffen up or recoil from him as if his mere presence scalds Starsky. It doesn’t happen often. Sporadically at best, Hutch admits with relief, and it hasn’t happened for a long time now but he remembers each incident as vividly as when they occurred and slathers more snow upon those memories every time his mind evokes them against his will.

Sometimes, thinking about not thinking about Starsky as more than friend has a habit of making him think even more about the what ifs of his life. Like, what if John Blaine hadn’t been killed and outed as a gay man leading a double life? What if Starsky had never found out his childhood mentor was gay? What if Hutch had kept his big, dumb mouth shut instead of asking Starsky whether two guys like them, who spend seventy-five percent of all their time together, have such _tendencies_ too?

What if Hutch had kept his big, dumb mouth shut and not joked that Starsky wasn’t even a good kisser?

 _Damn_ , the way Starsky had glared at him after retorting, “How do _you_ know that?” and he’d glanced back at Starsky and seen the livid challenge in Starsky’s big blue eyes, _daring_ him to dredge up that _talk_ that never came to pass years ago in Starsky’s old Ridgeway apartment. Daring him to accuse Starsky of being a closeted homosexual too, or accuse them _both_ of being closeted homosexuals, hiding in the lonely dark, convincing themselves the dark was good enough.

Well, Starsky could have the darkness in the closet all to himself.

Hutch had his fortress of ice and its vast gardens of snow, and nothing could touch him as long as he was there and that was good enough for him.

Nothing, not even Starsky’s graphic gloating the very next morning in the squad room, in full hearing of every other cop there, about a really hot and heavy night with some random woman he met at some club whom Starsky never spoke about again.

_No worries, buddy. Got the message loud and clear._

Then there was Meredith, Starsky’s temporary partner when Hutch was shot in the shoulder by a girl whose heart was even colder than Hutch’s, a young black woman Starsky had also gloated to him about having had a hot and heavy night with while he was still recovering in the hospital. He had said nothing in reply. Had not asked Starsky what Starsky would say if _he_ replaced his partner with someone else.

Then there was Kira, yet another woman in Starsky’s life who inevitably hurt the guy, a woman Hutch had fucked after Starsky had told him that he loved her and _no_ , no, damnit, he had _not_ fucked her because he was jealous of Starsky loving her and not him.

Then, there was the shooting in the Metro’s car park, and Hutch’s fortress had endured months and months of nonstop onslaught against its icy ramparts while doctors and surgeons waged war with death and infection for Starsky’s life and sewed Starsky back up like a rag doll and helped the severely injured man the best they could to heal and return to a former semblance of himself. When Starsky’s heart had stopped on the day of the shooting, the fortress hadn’t caved in. Instead, it had frozen up even more, cutting off all light and air to Hutch’s heart and Hutch would have died too if Starsky’s heart had not resumed beating once more the moment he laid eyes on Starsky again, laid his hand on the glass partition separating him from his comatose partner.

Perhaps portions of Hutch’s heart _had_ died that day, from lack of something more precious than light or air.  Perhaps something that had once been beautiful and good _had_ died that day along with Starsky and hadn’t come back with Starsky, something that used to make their relationship – no, friendship, _friendship_ – work so efficiently and _winningly_ because they definitely aren’t functioning in sync anymore and they definitely _aren’t_ in tune with each other anymore.

It has been almost six months since Starsky’s reinstatement as a BCPD homicide detective, and Hutch is no longer sure how long he can endure this extra-tetchy, morose, antagonistic version of his partner who seems to find a perverse delight in pissing him off for no reason whatsoever. Like Starsky can’t stand his physical presence. Like Starsky wants to drive him away and preserve a _respectable_ distance between them after months of him hanging around Starsky throughout Starsky’s arduous recuperation. Like Starsky is _fighting_ him, fighting him when there isn’t a conflict to begin with, or fighting _something_ that has to do with him.

It makes no fucking sense to Hutch at all. None of it.

And Starsky thinks _he’s_ the weird one?

“So whaddaya say, Hutch?”

Starsky is unexpectedly well-behaved today, busy abusing the typewriter instead and banging on its keys to write up a report for their larger-than-life captain. 

“To what?”

“To some pizza and a movie tomorrow night.”

The tip of the pen Hutch is writing with skids to a halt on white, lined paper. Hutch stares down at the squiggle, his mind blank for a minute. Starsky, asking him out for pizza? And a _movie?_

God, how long has it _been_ since Starsky asked him out? Since Starsky asked him over to his place? Weeks? _Months?_

And why does it have to be tomorrow night, the very night he’s unavailable and _definitely_ can’t cancel his plans?

As Hutch reaches for a bottle of Liquid Paper next to his notepad, he continues to stare down at the squiggle and says, “Sorry, can’t do tomorrow night.”

The banging of the typewriter’s keys doesn’t decelerate.

“Why not?”

Hutch’s mind goes blank for the second time. Shit, he hadn’t anticipated _that_ question, and he isn’t sure how to frame his answer. He’s successfully evaded telling Starsky about his girlfriend – his _steady_ girlfriend, Stacey – for at least three weeks now and the squad room is _not_ where he wants to go into details about her, not when this is the first time Starsky will hear about her.

Not when this is the very first time he has kept a girlfriend secret from Starsky.

But he can’t lie to Starsky for long. He just doesn’t know how. (Well, except when Starsky double-clutches him into a truck, which isn’t what’s occurring at the moment.)

“Got a date,” he says, hoping Starsky will drop the issue.

“Yeah? Met a new girl?”

Squeezing out some white-out liquid over the damn squiggle, _still_ not looking at Starsky, Hutch replies, “Depends on your definition of new.”

Starsky’s typewriter goes silent.

There is a gravid pause, a pause chock-full of something that discourages Hutch even more from glancing up.

Then Starsky says quietly, “You been seeing someone for a while?”

Hutch sighs and glances up at the other man at last. Starsky is poker-faced, revealing nothing on those attractive features.

“Yeah. About three weeks.” Hutch scratches the back of his head and adds, “Met her at a vegetarian grocery.”

Starsky doesn’t snicker. Starsky remains poker-faced.

“Oh … Well. That’s great.” The banging of typewriter keys recommences, and it’s probably just Hutch’s imagination that Starsky is forcing the keys down harder, _angrier_ , and that Starsky’s tone has developed a subtle acidity. “It just figures, a _vegetarian_ grocery. Takes a freak to know another freak.”

A riposte almost flies off Hutch’s tongue at Starsky referring to Stacey as a ‘freak’, but he detects the ends of Starsky’s lips slightly curving up and the terse words in his mouth perish and yield to a small smile of his own. It also just figures that Starsky still abhors vegetarian food. Guess some things really never change.

Hutch doesn’t think much about his knee-jerk reaction to Starsky’s comment until they’re sitting side by side in his LTD during a boring night stakeout on 4th and Main a week later. Starsky is asking him out for food and a movie again, with an outwardly casual voice, and Hutch cusses internally at the coincidence of him having already confirmed a date with Stacey on the night Starsky’s chosen.

Starsky swiftly and accurately concludes from his hesitancy that he won’t be able to make it this time as well.

“Got a date with your lady again?”

“Yeah,” Hutch says with a sincere shade of regret. He truly wants to have a night out with Starsky. Just the two of them, painting the town red and having a ball, like the old days. It’s been so long that he can’t hark back to the last time they did that.

Wasn’t there a time when he wouldn’t have thought twice about shelving a date if it meant spending quality time alone with Starsky?

Wasn’t there a time when _Starsky_ would have done the same for him?

Wasn’t there a time when he wouldn’t have thought twice of telling Starsky about the latest girlfriend, about her bodily attributes and her character and the little quirks that make her who she is? Of asking Starsky his opinion of her, to see whether Starsky likes what he’s heard and seen or not?

But now, it’s … different. Now _they’re_ different. Now Hutch doesn’t even know if Starsky is seeing anyone either, or if Starsky’s mad at him for not spilling the beans about Stacey earlier or if Starsky’s just plain _mad_ at him for something he’s done, something that’s _hurting_ Starsky and wait a minute, shouldn’t _he_ be the one who’s mad at Starsky, mad at the stubborn, _infuriating_ guy for ending their –

No. No, no, _no_. Not going there, Hutchinson. _No_.

While Hutch piles on snow by the ton across his mental landscape, Starsky murmurs, “So what’s her name?”

Hutch blinks and turns his head to gaze at Starsky. Starsky is staring forwards through the windshield, face unreadable. Hutch finds it rather perturbing to see Starsky – normally so animated and energetic – so … _static_ instead. Like a television showing a snowy noise pattern.

“Stacey. Stacey Davis.”

“What’s she do?”

“She does administrative work. For Bank of America.”

“Oh.”

“She likes burritos.”

“Vegetarian burritos, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Vegetarian burritos aren’t real burritos.”

Glancing out the side window, Hutch smiles at the playful defiance in Starsky’s tone. There he is, there’s the Starsky he knows.

“Maybe you can tell her that yourself,” he replies mildly, hoping Starsky will acknowledge the memo between the lines.

Starsky says nothing for a long while. When Hutch looks at the other man again, he sees that Starsky is still staring out the windshield although Starsky has folded his arms over his chest now. Still straight-faced.

“Were you ever gonna tell me about her?”

The quietness of Starsky’s voice, the letdown vibrating from it, leaves a scratch – a grave one – on one wall of his icy fortress. Resentment, annoyance, he’d envisaged, but not this.

“Yes. I was. I just … I just wasn’t sure how to go about it.”

“Why?”

Hutch rubs at his forehead with a forefinger.

_Because I don’t know who you are anymore. Because I don’t know who WE are anymore. Because I don’t know why you’re always so angry at me, why you seem to be doing everything you can to keep me away and yet act hurt when I don’t share my personal life with you and decline your offers of food and movies._

_Because you … hate me now._

_Do you, Starsk?_

_Please say no._

But Hutch says, “I guess I wanted to wait until I was – I was _sure_ about her.”

It’s probably Hutch’s imagination again, that the temperature in the car suddenly plummets several degrees and that Starsky has frozen in his seat. That’s _his_ gig, isn’t it? To be frozen and _strong_ and _free_ of everything?

Hutch has no idea why the mere notion of Starsky frozen and _emotionless_ causes something in the alcove of his left chest to ache appallingly.

“You talking _wedding bells_ here, Blintz?”

Starsky is staring at him now, stunned, eyes wide and lips parted.

Hutch has no idea, either, why Starsky calling him by a mere nickname causes that thing in his left chest to ache even more. How long has it been since Starsky has called him with fond monikers like that? How _long?_

“It’s … possible,” Hutch mumbles. It is a truthful answer. Yeah, okay, it’s true he hadn’t considered marriage at all when he met Stacey for the first time. Not when she smiled at him and he smiled back and they ended up strolling the aisles of the vegetarian grocery together, chatting away about healthy foods and regimens and where you can buy the best cranberry spinach salad in town, trading recipes for sweet potato casseroles, trading phone numbers. Not even when they had sex for the first time on Stacey’s bed in her bungalow home on Alabama Street in Willowbrook, or the second time two days later on her sofa as the radio played soothing blues.

No, he’d considered marriage with Stacey only when he talked to her about Starsky for the first time (except that one month, of course, that one month he should _never_ be thinking about again) and vented his frustrations over Starsky’s unexplainable ill-treatment of him for the past six to seven months and Stacey had said kindly to him, “He’s hurting, Ken. He’s been through a lot. I can tell just from what you’ve said that he cares a lot about you, and you him. Maybe he just doesn’t know how to tell you that he’s hurting inside,” and then, “I’d like to meet David. He sounds like a good guy.”

None of his previous girlfriends had ever wholly accepted Starsky as an integral part of his life, of his _future_. Certainly not his ex-wife Vanessa, god rest her soul despite that last selfish act she pulled on him that nearly cost him his job and his freedom and _Starsky_ who’d been willing to do _jail time_ with him, such was Starsky’s loyalty.

How can he not care for Stacey? Stacey, who understands him and his foibles? His dedication to his partner?

“Oh. Wow.”

Starsky sounds dazed. Hutch can’t blame the guy for feeling that way.

“It’s just a possibility right now, Starsky. Nothing concrete.”

Hutch rubs at his forehead again, staring out the windshield as well.

“I wanna meet her, Hutch.”

It’s Hutch’s turn to stare at Starsky’s profile instead.

“Really? Y-you really want to meet her?”

“Yeah. _Yeah_ , I do,” Starsky says. Starsky is smiling, that sideways smile that makes him appear a youthful imp. “I mean, the future Mrs. Hutchinson.”

“Just a possibility, Starsky,” Hutch reiterates, but he’s also smiling, glad that Starsky is okay with him being in a relationship with Stacey. Okay with them being _married_ one day, even. “Why don’t you join us for dinner?”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Stacey really wants to meet you too. She’s great. You guys will hit it off, I’m sure of it.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

Hutch leans his head back on the headrest. He stares out the windshield once more like Starsky is, already conjuring up images of the three of them bantering and laughing together over dinner at The Pits tomorrow night, absolutely unaware of Starsky’s left hand – concealed from his sight by the folding of Starsky’s arms – compressed into a fist so tight that the fingernails are burrowing deep into skin, breaking and bleeding it.

 

& & & & & &

 

Starsky is atypically subdued. Scarcely eating his linguine and clams, and Hutch struggles with the urge to ask Starsky if Huggy’s linguine and clams is just that awful or if the dish is reminding Starsky of the night he got shot in the back in that Italian restaurant by hitmen hoping to knock off a mob boss, Vic Monte.

“Stacey, did I ever tell you about the time Starsky double-clutched me into a truck?” he says to Stacey who’s attired in a divine, sleeveless red dress and sitting between him and Starsky at the round table upon which their meals are served. Not intentionally, since _he_ was the one who’d dragged out the chair for her and then sat himself across the table from Starsky. Not intentionally.

Stacey grins at him and shakes her head. Hutch glances at Starsky, expecting Starsky to be grinning along and getting all riled up about how Hutch had tricked him into believing he had severe amnesia and cunningly prompted him to tell stories about their past escapades, but Starsky is just … sitting there. Coiling cooling linguine round and round the spines of a fork and not eating the pasta or the clams. Just sitting there not looking at Stacey, like he wants to sprint out of the place like a bat out of hell before they even sat down but can’t. That would be damn _rude_ , in any case.

Hutch doesn’t understand what’s going on with Starsky tonight. At all.

The evening had started fine enough, at least to Hutch. He’d picked up Stacey from her house and driven straight to The Pits since Starsky had informed him he was going there in the Torino. Stacey had no problem with the arrangements. She wanted to see Starsky’s car anyway, to see with her own eyes the mythical Torino Hutch had spoken about so often to her. She has a thing for cars like Starsky does, which is another reason Hutch had been so convinced yesterday she and Starsky would connect.

Starsky had shown up a couple of minutes after them, parking the Torino behind his LTD in front of Huggy’s bar and bistro as they were getting out of the car, and Stacey had greeted Starsky with that charming smile and hugged Starsky and then cooed over the Torino, genuinely appreciating the vehicle. If Hutch hadn’t been standing a distance away to observe the interaction between his girlfriend and Starsky, he would very likely have missed seeing the way Starsky had gone rigid upon laying eyes on Stacey for the first time. The way Starsky had gawked at her as if Starsky couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, the way Starsky’s smile had diminished once Stacey shifted her attention to the Torino.

Maybe it’s the coincidence that Starsky is also wearing red – a red t-shirt, to be exact – that’s caused Starsky to behave so bizarrely. Or maybe Starsky knows her, or knows _something_ about her but if that’s the case, Starsky would have reacted upon hearing her name and details last night. Starsky hadn’t, so it probably isn’t that.

Whatever it is, Hutch wishes he knew it, if only to lift this fog of inexplicable melancholy off Starsky. His best friend. Who won’t look him in the eye.

To Hutch’s dismay, Huggy’s appearance at their table ends up exacerbating that melancholy.

“Well, well, and _who_ is this _beaaaaaautiful_ lady in red?” Huggy drawls, already bowing graciously and giving the top of Stacey’s right hand a chivalrous peck that sends Stacey giggling with delight. Or maybe just giggling in amusement at Huggy’s flamboyant neon purple-on-orange and yellow suit and its polka-dot tie. Probably the latter.

“Huggy, I’d like you to meet Stacey, my girlfriend. Stacey, this is Huggy Bear, the owner of this _fine establishment_.”

“A fine, _classy_ and _truly_ one-of-a-kind establishment,” Huggy adds, and when Hutch jests, “Yeah, Huggy, where else can you get fresh salmonella on rye?”, it takes Huggy a few seconds to realize what Hutch had said. By the time he does, Stacey is giggling again and Huggy is directing a mock glower at Hutch and Starsky is … not laughing at all.

“This spinach lasagna is _delicious_ , Huggy,” Stacey says.

Huggy brightens up in a flash, smiling broadly at her.

“Why, thank you! I made it myself.” Huggy bends down between Hutch and Stacey to stage whisper to them, “I’m thinking of including it in my menu, for my _esteemed_ vegetarian customers. What do you think of that?”

Hutch snorts, then says, “Ten bucks says I’ll be the only regular customer of yours who’ll touch it with a ten-foot pole.”

“Now, Ken, for all you know, if Huggy does add it to his menu along with _other_ vegetarian dishes, it might encourage more vegetarians to dine here!”

Huggy looks at Stacey with twinkling eyes. Then, he turns his head to look at Hutch and says with a smile, “I _like_ the way she thinks, Hutch.”

Hutch chuckles with Huggy and Stacey … and is excruciatingly conscious of the fact that Starsky hasn’t uttered a word. Huggy is, also, for Huggy straightens up and says to Starsky with mock distress, “Starsky! You haven’t eaten a _single_ mouthful of your linguine and clams! I cooked that myself too, you know! Is it really _bogue_ or something?”

Starsky seems startled by Huggy’s interjection, jerking out of a reverie, and blushes when it dawns on him that Hutch, Huggy and Stacey are gazing at him with inquiring eyes. Starsky clears his throat and hurriedly says, “Sorry, Huggy. It’s _good_ , really. It’s good. I’m just … not feeling too well today. That’s all.”

On their own volition, Hutch’s eyes scrutinize Starsky’s face, noting the gauntness that wasn’t there before, the paleness of Starsky’s pursed lips, the disturbing murkiness in the depths of Starsky’s heavy-lidded eyes. The dark moons under those eyes, as if Starsky hasn’t had a decent night’s slumber in ages.

_What’s going on, buddy?_

_What’s happening to you? To us?_

“You _are_ looking a little pale around the edges,” Huggy comments like he’d read Hutch’s mind. Huggy smacks Hutch on the shoulder. “This blond turkey here making you do _all_ the work now that he’s a _national hero?_ Hutch! Starsky only got back on the streets _six months_ ago! Give the poor man a break!”

Starsky smiles. It’s one of those wide, extraordinary smiles. One Hutch has missed acutely, for a very long time.

“Nah,” Starsky murmurs, and then the smile fades, a cloud blocking out that inner sun. “S’got nothing to do with work.”

Then, Huggy is chatting with Stacey about popular vegetarian dishes, but Hutch doesn’t hear any of the conversation because Starsky is _finally_ gazing at him and all of a sudden, all the noise in the world dwindles into a hush and there’s no one and nothing in the world except them, just the two of them, staring into each other’s eyes. There is a light in Starsky’s eyes now, a peculiar light. An _unsettling_ light, the sort you only see when the universe is about to cease its existence and all the suns in it have exploded and died and become empty husks, never to shine again.

Starsky is smiling once more. It is a smile Hutch has never seen before. It’s cataclysmic, devastating as a supernova in spite of how _tender_ it appears, how _unguarded_ it is with its toothless, slight curve and … and sound is returning, but it is a ghastly sound. A deafening, droning sound that’s saying to Hutch, _there’s no turning back_.

A ghastly sound saying to Hutch, _this is the end_.

A ghastly sound saying, _goodbye_.

“Hey, Huggy, ya know you’re talking to the future Mrs. Hutchinson?”

Hutch stares at Starsky who is no longer gazing or smiling at him. He thinks he’s shaking his head, thinks he’s saying _no, he’s not, she’s not_ , and he _thinks_ that they’ve heard him and all this _confusion_ is just a straightforward issue of _misinterpretation_ and … Huggy is grinning at him, brown eyes wide with surprise. No, oh _no_ –

“You don’t _say!_ Hutch, my man, is your other half for _real_ or is he just playing me for a _fool?_ ”

“He’s –“

“Geez, Huggy, ya gotta ask? They’re both vegetarian weirdos! What else do you need to know? It’s a match made in heaven.”

Hutch begins to scratch his right eyebrow with his thumbnail. A subconscious tic. A tic that’s just the tip of a goddamn iceberg of more _no_ and _oh no_ and _no, that’s not true, Starsky, why did you say that, why –_

“Well, _congratulations_ , Hutch! That is _off the hook!_ Why didn’t you say anything?!”

He doesn’t feel Huggy’s triumphant slap to his upper back. He doesn’t feel anything, not even when he glances at Stacey and sees that she isn’t looking at him but at Starsky half-heartedly chewing on a forkful of cold linguine, the peculiar light in _her_ eyes now.

What is she _seeing_ , looking at Starsky with that light in her empathetic eyes?

What is she seeing that _he_ can’t see?

“Sorry, lady and gents,” Huggy abruptly says to them, peering over their heads at the bar. “I think dear Anita is in some need of _assistance_. You’ll have to excuse me. Peace.”

Starsky waves him off, and before Hutch can even mentally exclaim, _no, Huggy, you got it wrong, you got to listen to me_ , Huggy is gone, darting to the bar on sprightly feet to handle a dispute between his head waitress and an irritated, obviously drunk patron.

“Hey, uh, I think I gotta take a rain check.”

Starsky has folded his napkin and set it on the table next to a three quarter-full plate of pasta and clams. Hutch blinks, flits his gaze between Starsky’s averted face and Starsky’s barely consumed food. It’s a rare thing, Starsky not finishing a meal. A _bad_ thing.

“Are you alright, David?”

Stacey is resting the fingers of her right hand on Starsky’s forearm. A gentle touch of compassion.

“ _Yeah_ , yeah, I just … don’t feel so good,” Starsky replies, sending her a smile, a wobbly one that makes Hutch wish to shut his eyes and swallow visibly. “Think it’s better if I go home now.” 

“Maybe Ken can drive you home if you really don’t –“

“No! No, it’s okay, Stacey. Really.” Something inside Hutch skips a beat at Starsky winking at them as Starsky stands up and smooths down the lapels of his black leather jacket. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds be. Nobody likes a third wheel, I know. Don’t worry about me. Enjoy yourselves, ‘kay?”

“It was nice meeting you, David. Ken and I will be holding you to that rain check!”

Starsky sends them another smile – a more persuasive smile – and then, Starsky is gone too, practically running out of the joint before Hutch can even think, _no, Starsky, wait, stay_. Hutch watches Starsky’s brusque exit through the front entry doors, unaware of Stacey doing the same or of the contemplative, discerning glint in her eyes. Unaware as well of Huggy doing the same, or of the concern in his eyes for his two longtime friends who are becoming less and less friends of each other.

“Is he going to be alright?”

Stacey’s question dumbfounds him. She’d said it in a tone he’s unconfident of processing, a tone asking him something else entirely … and he doesn’t know what.

He tells her the first sensible answer that springs to mind, “Yeah, I’m sure he will. He’s a tough guy. He’ll be good as new come Monday.”

“Hmm.”

Hutch feels as if he’s just failed a test he didn’t know he’d been given, and he doesn’t know why.

“Hey.” He reaches across the table to grasp her delicate hand. “I know Starsky. I’ve known him a long time. I know when he’s really ill, and I’d never let him be alone if he was. Especially not after the – after what happened at the Metro. I’ll call him later, okay?”

Stacey squeezes his hand once.

“Okay,” she says, smiling at him, dazzling as a star.

And with relief flooding through him, Hutch sighs and smiles into her big blue eyes, and elevates his hand to caress her thick, dark curls.

 

& & & & & &

 

Starsky’s side of their desk is vacant. There’s nothing on it. Not a single pencil, paper, paperclip or eraser. Not even the Porky Pig piggy bank.

Hutch stares at the emptiness, at the Starsky-shaped void, and he can’t comprehend it. The last time he’d sat here at their section of the squad room desk, Starsky’s side was jam-packed with all sorts of junk, like piles of case files and random papers strewn all over the table top and food wrappers and their mugs of coffee and even _toys_. You just have to _look_ at a desk to know Starsky had been there.

But today, there’s nothing. Nada. Bupkis. Just the dark grey, nonglossy surface of the desk.

It’s like Starsky was never there.

Like Starsky’s just … ceased to exist.

Hutch stares at the emptiness some more. Then, in a trance-like state, he glances around the room at the other detectives occupying it, searching their shuttered faces for an explanation for this Starsky-shaped void that has materialized out of nowhere. All of them are dodging his eyes, uncharacteristically engaged with their paperwork, unforthcoming with any sympathetic words, much less enlightenment. Even Simmons and Babcock, the resident clowns of the squad, are downcast and speechless and only sneak inquisitive glances at him when they think he’s not looking at them.

What the hell is going on here? What the hell is _going on_ , that he saw Starsky just last Friday – a good day in which they’d arrested a sibling pair of robbers who’d been targeting grocery stores owned by people of ethnic minorities – and Starsky’s stuff was very much still where they always were, on the opposite side of the desk from his?

Hutch waits, but he receives nothing from his fellow detectives. Just the clearing of throats. Rustling of papers. The squeaking of pen tips on paper.

The door of Dobey’s office swings open.

“Hutchinson. Get in here.”

Dobey isn’t roaring. Dobey is speaking softly, like something horrendous has occurred, like the end of the world – _Hutch’s_ world – and Hutch is frightened, very much so, of obeying his captain and walking into Dobey’s office to learn firsthand about the horror.

He does it anyway.

“Close the door.”

As Hutch does so, the snow starts to fall onto the vast gardens of permafrost within him, and more ice is freezing around the fortress in which his heart still resides. Preparing for its worst blitzkrieg yet.

Dobey motions to one of the chairs in front of his desk. Hutch sits on the left chair, bolt upright, forearms on the armrests. He mutely observes Dobey settling back in his chair behind his desk and spending a minute or two skimming through some folders and sighing heavily to himself. Dobey won’t look at him.

The snowfall grows denser.

Out of the blue, Dobey smacks his right hand on the table top and leans forward and stares Hutch in the eye.

“ _You_ going to tell me what’s going on between you and Starsky?”

Hutch’s brows furrow into a frown of puzzlement.

“Captain, I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hutch is telling the truth. He seriously has no clue what Dobey is querying, since he and Starsky have been getting along _better_ lately. Gone is the extra-tetchy, morose, antagonistic version of his partner who had seemed to find a perverse delight in pissing him off for no reason whatsoever, gone and supplanted by a Starsky more like the Starsky he knew. A more levelheaded and considerate Starsky, a _nicer_ Starsky who isn’t jumping down his throat at the drop of a hat anymore or aggravating him without cause, who has dutifully picked him up _every_ morning _and_ driven him home in the evening for the past two weeks.

In all the years they’ve been partners, Starsky has _never_ done that before.

It _has_ to be an indication of _improvement_ in their friendship.

Right?

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Hutchinson. You telling me that there’s nothing wrong between you two?!”

Hutch stares back at Dobey. He’s at quite a loss for words, and privately, he wonders if this is just another straightforward issue of misinterpretation. Either that, or maybe Dobey’s having a really bad day today and has simply mistaken Hutch and Starsky for another set of partners who’re having troubles or –

“If there’s nothing _wrong_ , tell me why the hell Starsky asked for a _transfer_ and a _new partner!_ ”

It isn’t a blitzkrieg that assails Hutch’s fortress. It’s a cudgel of fire, a cudgel bigger than anything the fortress has ever dealt with, a gargantuan weapon that bludgeons suddenly fragile ice barricades and smashes straight through to the shielded heart in its core. Mashing and razing it to a bloody, charred pulp.

Dobey is still staring at him. Awaiting an explanation, from him, but all Hutch sees is Starsky sitting in the driver’s seat of the Torino, gazing at him as he says good night to Starsky and climbs out of the car, for the last time. Gazing at him with those big blue eyes, and smiling at him, that smile he’d seen at The Pits during their dinner with Stacey. That smile of suns dying and universes ending … that smile with that deafening, ghastly sound that Hutch is hearing once more, reverberating inside his skull.

_There’s no turning back._

_This is the end._

_Goodbye._

Hutch and Dobey continue to stare at each other across the room in tense silence for another minute, Hutch blindly so. Then, slowly, Dobey straightens up, his authoritative features going slack with comprehension. Dobey pinches the skin between his eyes.

“I’m going to _kill_ him,” Dobey mutters to himself.

Hutch says nothing to that. His eyes are seeing Starsky’s Torino still parked by the sidewalk in front of Venice Place as he ambles to the entry leading up to his apartment, parked there as if Starsky is watching him walk away and out of sight.

As if Starsky wants to see as much as of him as possible. Before he can’t anymore.

”He didn’t tell you, did he?”

Snow is falling again, cold and merciless, across a noiseless, wrecked cerebral land scattered with colossal chunks of ice, remnants of the towering fortress that had taken years – a lifetime – to construct. Beneath one of these chunks of ice lies Hutch’s heart, cowering in its shadow, shocked senseless by the carnage. Shocked by the damage it’s sustained, an abysmal corroding of its flesh that won’t stop no matter how much snow it rolls in.

It’s burning, burning till it’s numb and dead.

“No, sir,” Hutch murmurs eventually, his back ramrod straight, his eyes wide and typhlotic. Feeling nothing. Nothing at all.

Dobey sighs heavily yet again, then says, “Starsky submitted a request for a transfer out of Homicide three weeks ago. He wouldn’t say a thing to me when I asked him about it.” A long pause, after which Dobey asks benevolently, “You’re honestly telling me there’s nothing wrong between you two? Nothing going on I ought to know about?”

Something very much like hysterical laughter almost gurgles its way out of Hutch’s dry mouth.

_Sure, Captain, Starsky and I were lovers for a whole month about five years ago. It was the best month of my life, Captain, because I thought Starsky loved me the same way I loved him and I thought I’d finally found the Real Deal and that he and I were going to be forever but, hey, guess what, we were just buddies fucking around and it was my mistake for assuming it was anything more than that and now Starsky doesn’t even want to be my partner anymore. Talk about your typical shitty Hutchinson luck, huh?_

But Hutch just says, “I … don’t know, sir.”

Dobey scratches the side of his head, sighs another time and then picks up one of the files on his desk and holds it out towards Hutch.

“This is the file on your new partner. He’s coming in the day after tomorrow. Be here at nine.”

Hutch gets to his feet by placing his hands on his chair’s armrests and pushing himself up. His hands aren’t shaking, no, they aren’t, and neither are his knees weak and rickety as he takes the folder from Dobey. It’s undeniable this time that Dobey is avoiding eye contact.

Hutch shuffles to the door. His feet have become so cumbersome, like they weigh a thousand pounds each, but Hutch doesn’t look down at them. He can’t. He’ll fall if he does, fall and just not get up again.

“I’m taking you off the roster for today and tomorrow.”

Hutch doesn’t turn around and opens the door without a word.

“Go home, Hutch. That’s an order.”

The kindness in Dobey’s gruff voice is the last thing he wants to hear. It singes him, singes that dead thing inside him.

The click of the door shutting behind him echoes in the spookily quiet squad room. Hutch doesn’t notice the curious glances aimed at him as he shuffles past the long desk still occupied by other detectives. Doesn’t hear the scrape of chair legs against the floor, as Simmons begins to stand up and call out to him only to be shushed by Babcock who shakes his head in negation of Simmons’ intended action.

He doesn’t sense the polished wood of the squad room doors under his hand as he shoves them open and shuffles through them. He doesn’t sense the polished floor underneath his feet as he shuffles down the staircases and hallways to the main entrance, or the cement as he shuffles to his LTD parked by the sidewalk. He doesn’t sense the steering wheel in his hands as he drives away from the Metro, as he drives and drives and drives till the sun is setting and his lips are cracked from dehydration and his eyes are prickling and his cheeks are mystifyingly damp. Damn, is there a hole in the LTD’s roof or something? Is it raining?

He doesn’t remember arriving at Venice Place. He doesn’t remember coming in from the dark, switching on the lamp on the side table by the couch in the living room. Doesn’t remember sitting on aforementioned couch. Staring at the phone, at its black buttons with their white numbers, picturing himself jabbing a very familiar series of numbers and saying to the other person on the line, _what the hell is going on, Starsky, what the HELL is going on with you, with US?!_

But there is no _us_ anymore. He’s gotten Starsky’s message loud and clear, and Hutch stays where he is, staring at the phone for a very long time and cursing his rotten luck that not only is his LTD’s roof leaking warm water but also his apartment’s roof. And of all places, right on his _face_ , his damn face, no matter where he staggers around, even in the greenhouse on his patio where he attempts to chat with his plants and he sees mysterious droplets of water emerge out of nowhere on their leaves or flowers every time he bows his head.

And everywhere he goes, everything he sees and touches reminds him of Starsky.

There’s that silly pet rock Starsky bought from Huggy, there on his shelf of books and an assortment of antiques and other trinkets, little silly things Starsky had purchased on a whim and then left them with him, like Starsky had always planned to buy them for _him_ and not for himself. There’s that luridly colorful Falsa blanket Starsky had purchased when they’d gone on vacation to Mexico several years ago, folded over the backrest of the couch, colorful and velvety and smelling a bit like Starsky after a cool shower. There’s his guitar on its metal stand in the corner of the living room, its strings almost two years old, purchased by Starsky after the old ones had snapped while he and Starsky were relaxing and singing together one weekend. Just them, the two of them.

Not anymore.

He doesn’t remember going back to sit on the couch. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there. All he knows is that the leaking hasn’t halted yet, that it probably isn’t going to for a very, very long time.

Without warning, the phone rings, and Hutch turns his head to stare at it. It continues to ring even after Hutch has counted to ten. Is it Starsky? Has Starsky found out that he knows about the transfer, the _partner reassignment_ now?

_What did I do wrong, buddy?_

_Tell me what I did wrong, so I can make it right and fix things. Fix everything._

Hutch picks up the phone. It’s Stacey, greeting him with her comforting, mellow voice, asking him how he’s doing today and whether he and Starsky had a productive day of catching criminals and cleaning up the streets of Los Angeles.

_Oh, it was an interesting day, honey. I had to find out from my captain that my partner of nearly eight years – my partner who once told me I was his best friend he’s got in the whole world – decided to ditch me behind my back and leave Homicide and partner up with someone else. Yeah, really, just like that. No word. Nothing. That’s how much I mean to Starsky these days, I guess. How was your day?_

He thinks that’s what he’s said to Stacey. He thinks he’s probably said it in a relatively nonchalant voice, but Stacey is silent, really silent, and then she’s telling him she’s coming over right now, telling him to stay where he is and not do anything rash and he finds it rather funny. He tries to laugh. The sound that emits from his mouth doesn’t sound anything like it.

He puts the phone receiver down and remains seated on the couch, staring at the folder Dobey had passed him. He doesn’t remember leaving it there on the coffee table. In the illumination of the lamp, the name printed on a white sticker at the top of the folder is glaring in black ink.

Joseph Callahan. The man soon to be his … new partner.

“Ken?”

Stacey is sitting beside him on the couch. Her thick, dark hair is a riot of curls. She has no makeup on. She has a suede jacket on, but under it she’s wearing a plain white t-shirt and dark grey sweatpants, the sort of clothes she usually wears at home. She must have hastened over immediately after her call and entered the apartment using her key.

She is a vision of beauty to Hutch’s sore eyes.

She says his name again. She touches his cheek, and when he looks her in the eye, she bites her lower lip and whispers, “Oh, Ken,” and hugs him tightly, stroking the back of his head. Hutch doesn’t understand why there were tears in her eyes, or why she’s telling him that everything will be alright, that everything’s going to be just fine and _Ken, are you thirsty, have you eaten anything, at all?_

He thinks he tells her no, he hasn’t, he isn’t hungry. He isn’t certain. He returns to staring at the folder on the coffee table after she kisses him on the top of his head and leaves the living room. Soon, he hears the sizzling sound of something cooking on a frying pan. Eggs. Scrambled eggs, from the smell of it. And something else made from potato. Must be the hash browns in his fridge.

Hutch eats the food reflexively, very conscious of Stacey watching him eat, making sure he eats all the scrambled eggs and hash browns and drinks all the coffee in his mug. He tastes none of it. He says nothing when Stacey picks up the folder from the coffee table and opens it. She studies a photographed portrait in it, a portrait of Callahan. Hutch doesn’t look at it. _Won’t_ look at it.

“Have you spoken to David yet?”

Hutch doesn’t answer. It is an answer in itself.

Stacey places the folder back on the coffee table, then takes the empty plate and mug from him and goes back to the kitchen to wash them. Within minutes, she’s sitting beside him once more, saying nothing and yet everything with her mere presence, with her warm hand gripping his lifeless one.

It singes him. Singes the dead thing inside him, reminding that dead thing of a warmth – an incredible warmth with the most charismatic smiles, the most seductive voice and the most erotic, furred _male_ body – that it’ll never feel again.

“I won’t be good company tonight,” he rasps.

He hates himself for not being able to look at her.

Stacey replies him with a tender kiss on his temple and murmurs words of consolation there. She reassures him that he’s free to call her any time of the night, that she’ll be there when he needs her and he shuts his eyes, agonizingly cognizant of how unworthy he is of such love from her. He nods in acknowledgement. He doesn’t watch her leave.

Everything he does afterwards is mechanical and dispassionate, from his ablutions in the bathroom to crawling into bed nude, sluggishly like a geriatric man with arthritis. He’s tired, so very tired. He lets his aching eyes flicker shut. He tosses and turns under the covers, peaceful slumber eluding him like a fallen angel slipping through his numb fingers, soaring away while he screams pleas to the angel to stay with him, to not go, _don’t go, please don’t leave, Starsky, please don’t_.

On the icy tundra of his nightmares, Hutch rebuilds his ruined fortress, block by block, snowy layer by layer.

Alone again, naturally.

 

& & & & & &

 

In the morning, Hutch’s first deed of the first day of his Starsky-less life is to shave off his moustache. He is surprised at how easy it is, not because he’s shaved his face thousands of times over the decades but because he’d had the moustache for at least two years. Two years is a long time in moustache years.

_It looked like a moldy caterpillar, Blondie. Good riddance!_

Standing in front of the bathroom sink, staring at the mirror, at the hairless skin above his upper lip, he scowls. No, he did _not_ shave it off for Starsky who’d disliked it. He shaved it off for _himself_.

It’s just him now. Not me and thee.

There’s no more of that crap.

_You want change, Starsky, I’ll show you change._

He stares a little longer at that strip of skin, and zealously steers clear of looking himself in his inflamed, puffy eyes.

While he waits for the redness of the shaved area and his eyes to vanish, he prepares and ingests a modest breakfast of wheat germ and cereal in cold milk. He still isn’t all that hungry due to the meal Stacey cooked for him last night. He makes a mental note to call her to thank her for it or take her out for lunch, if she’s free. Buy her a nice gift, like jewelry with ammonite or a painting of birds. She’s taken an interest in Chinese calligraphic paintings of birds lately. Perhaps he’ll find one in Chinatown.

Later, donning a green shirt, jeans and his aviator sunglasses, he drives to his hairstylist’s shop – about ten minutes away from his apartment – and flabbergasts her by requesting a haircut radically different than his customary choice when he hasn’t altered his style in ... at least two years. He ends up with a short, spiky, low-maintenance style with a dry, matte, deconstructed finish that draws the admiring attention of every other client. It’s _different_ , alright, sharp and sophisticated and _assertive_. Just the look he needs to confront his … new partner tomorrow morning.

_Confronting? He’s not your enemy, Blondie. He’s going to be your partner._

Hutch almost tells Starsky to shut up, but he catches himself and manages to show a thankful smile to his hairstylist who is also satisfied with the outcome.

_Oh, yeah? And whose fault is it that I’m going to have a new partner?_

Oh, great, he’s arguing with Starsky-like voices in his head now. He must have boarded the train to Crazy Town last night and not known it. He wonders what Stacey will think of that.

After his haircut, he heads for the nearest shopping mall and buys himself a new black leather bomber jacket, a few dress shirts and pants of various colors and a new pair of tan, leather boots. He draws even more admiring glances from customers and mall assistants alike throughout his shopping spree, particularly while he poses in front of mirrors to inspect the fitting of his new clothes on his figure, and politely declines numerous invitations for a drink or lunch or dinner. One of those invitations had been from a young, strawberry-blond man, an assistant in the store where he bought the bomber jacket. Hutch hadn’t been offended at all, and had even smiled when the man sighed to himself, “Ah, the good ones are always taken,” and sincerely wished the man luck on finding someone good too.

Wearing his new leather jacket, he drives to the branch of Bank of America where Stacey works and takes her out for lunch at their favorite vegetarian restaurant on Willow Street. She likes the new jacket very much as well as his updated hairstyle and lack of moustache, and this pleases him and he tells her so. Stacey smiles at him in return. He holds her hand on the lacquered, wooden table top, brushing the silkiness of her skin with the pad of his thumb, and does his damnest to not think about the silky skin of another hand, a larger hand with calloused fingers that had touched him like no other.

They dine on fresh vegetable and fine egg noodle soup, parmesan-crusted sandwiches stuffed with tomatoes, sliced avocados and alfalfa sprouts, and a huge slice of creamy key lime pie in a contented silence. Hutch is the one who broaches the subject of his partner reassignment as they eat their slice of pie for dessert.

“He’ll be at the Metro tomorrow morning. Dobey’s ordered me to be there by nine.”

Hutch doesn’t bother identifying the person to whom he’s alluding.

“Hence the major fashion makeover?” Stacey asks, her amused smile half-hidden by her cup of tea as she sips from it.

Hutch smiles as well and replies, “Why not, right? It was about time for a change anyway.”

“Have you read that file on him?”

Hutch glances out the window next to their table, at the people of all walks of life strolling to and fro past the restaurant, at the cars zooming up and down the street on a busy weekday.

“No.”

He hears her put down her cup on its ceramic saucer, gently.

“You’d rather get to know him in person?”

“Something like that.”

He senses rather than sees Stacey gazing out the window too. They do so for some time, in a not-so-contented silence now.

“Have you heard from him?”

Hutch knows precisely to whom Stacey is referring, and it’s not the him they were talking about.

“No. And frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

The next two minutes pass in a certainly-not-contented silence.

“When did you say David submitted the request, again?”

Hutch carries on staring out the window. Under the table, his right hand has instinctively balled into a fist.

“Dobey said three weeks ago.”

Stacey has moved her gaze from the window to his face. He doesn’t look back at her. He doesn’t want to see the expression on her face, whatever it is.

“I miss Huggy’s spinach lasagna.”

Hutch sighs. He is very relieved for the instant shift in their dialogue.

“It was that good, huh?” he says, smiling at her, hoping to any deities listening that the smile appears blasé and isn’t screaming, _yeah, I know, I’m the one who started it but_ _thank god we aren’t talking about HIM anymore_.

“I enjoyed it, yes.” A small smile flashes across her face. Then, it weakens in brilliance, acceding to solemnity. “When was the last time you went to The Pits?”

Hutch props his chin on his left hand  and gives the question some thought.

“Man, it’s been so _busy_ at the Metro for the last few weeks. I think the last time I went to The Pits was with you. Yeah, you know, that dinner with …”

He lets the sentence trail off, incomplete. Great. Just great. Stacey drops the subject and there he goes, picking it back up pronto as if every goddamn conversation he has with her has to involve _him_ in some way or another _all_ the time.

_No more me and thee, Hutchinson. Get with the fucking program already._

Hutch has no idea whether it is his own inner voice that said that, or that tormenting Starsky-like voice that he wishes he could purge from his brain with industry-grade bleach. Either way, it makes him stack the blocks of ice of his new fortress all the more faster, stack them high up and over the dead thing inside him. It’s cauterized now, tougher than ever and strengthened by its scars.

_Hey, Blondie, why does something dead need its bleeding wounds to be sewn up?_

Pursing his lips into a thin line, Hutch tells the smartass Starsky-like voice to shut the fuck up and go away.

“Three weeks ago, right?”

Hutch blinks and then glances at Stacey with quizzical blue eyes.

“Hm?”

“We went to The Pits for dinner with David three weeks ago.”

There’s something odd about the way she’s gazing at him. Like she’s hoping he’ll figure something out but … what _about_ their dinner with Starsky three weeks ago?

So the transfer request was submitted to Dobey three weeks ago as well. Big deal. It’s why Starsky was all weird at the dinner and wouldn’t look at him or Stacey and had no appetite and left so early, that’s all.

Right?

“Yeah … yeah, that sounds about right,” Hutch murmurs faintly. Then he sits up and smiles at her. “Hey, since you really liked the spinach lasagna, we could go there for dinner again. Maybe this weekend. What do you think?”

Stacey is sipping her tea again. Her face is partially obscured by her cup, and Hutch is unable to decipher her expression. It’s not one that cheers him up, that much he knows.

“Sure,” she replies insouciantly, but the sinking sensation in the pit of Hutch’s stomach merely deepens. He can’t explain it. It’s the same feeling he had during the dinner at The Pits. Like he’s failed some test he doesn’t know he’d been given, a test he can’t even _see_.

Stacey glances at her watch.

“Oh, I have to be back at work.”

Hutch pays the bill despite Stacey wanting to go Dutch, buys her another slice of the key lime pie and then drives her back to the bank. He feels somewhat better when she kisses him on the lips and tells him he can pick her up after work and they can have dinner together. Yeah, he’s just being paranoid about Stacey being disappointed with him, he _has_ to be. She has no reason to feel that way about him, least of all in regards to Starsky. If there’s anyone who deserves disappointment now, it’s _him_.

What sort of a _pal_ just ups and leaves without a single word anyway? After _eight years_ of the closest friendship he’s ever had?

After _everything_ they’ve been through?

It makes no fucking sense to Hutch. _None_ of it.

His moderate mood perseveres only till evening, just as he is about to head out and pick up Stacey from work. She’s called him to let him know that she’ll have to work late tonight and take a rain check for their dinner tonight. Hutch reassures her that it’s fine, that they can have dinner together tomorrow, but when he puts the receiver down, the walls of his apartment are looming and converging on him, like they’re going to _crush_ him and he dashes down to the LTD and spends the night driving aimlessly instead.

He really, _really_ hates himself for driving into Starsky’s neighborhood multiple times. (By accident, of course. Or just old habit that he wants to _exterminate_ as soon as possible.) The one time he actually drives past Starsky’s apartment, he glances at it long enough to ascertain that the Torino isn’t there, that Starsky’s out and _phew_ , that means Starsky won’t know a damn thing about him having been here tonight.

The thought ought to gladden him.

It doesn’t.

When he arrives home, it’s two hours to midnight and he’s hungry. He grills himself a mozzarella and basil Panini, and munches on it while he watches the television. He doesn’t look once at the folder on the coffee table. Stacey calls him again, just before he retires for the night, to wish him luck for his meeting with Callahan in the morning and he thanks her and sends her a good night kiss over the phone, grateful for her presence in his life. Maybe she really _is_ the future Mrs. Hutchinson. Maybe.

At nine o’clock on the dot, he strides into the squad room in his new black bomber jacket, a cream-colored dress shirt, dark brown dress pants and his new boots, Callahan’s folder in hand. The air is instantaneously teeming with appreciative catcalls, hoots and whistles, and he can’t help smiling as he sets the folder down on his desk and mentally readies himself for the inescapable meeting in Dobey’s office.

“Hey, Hutchinson!” Simmons exclaims with a grin. “You trying to get onto the cover of GQ magazine?!”

Hutch laughs along with his fellow detectives. Heh, no, he hadn’t set out to look like a _magazine model_ , but considering how positively everyone in the room is responding to his transformed appearance, he’ll accept Simmons’ jibe as a compliment.

If the gleam in Dobey’s eyes is anything to go by, the big man approves of his new mien as well.

“Hutch, this is Detective Joseph Callahan. Formerly of the NYPD,” Dobey says to him, gesturing towards a tall, dark-haired, young man in a grey, pinstriped suit seated in the right chair in front of Dobey’s desk.

For one long minute, Hutch stands stationary halfway between the door and the chairs, his mind still reeling from the last word of Dobey’s latter remark as Callahan stands up and faces him.

The _NYPD?_ Callahan is from _New York City?_

“Detective Hutchinson, it’s a true honor to be your partner, sir.”

There’s no doubt about it, that’s a New York accent, alright. An accent just like Starsky’s.

Callahan is holding out his right hand towards him. It’s a large hand with long fingers, befitting of Callahan’s lanky albeit sinewy figure. Callahan is as tall as he is, with pale skin and thick, dark hair fashioned stylishly in a feathered hair style and oh shit, big, double-lidded blue eyes, thick eyebrows, a patrician nose and a broad smile just like _Starsky’s_ and _shit_ , what is Dobey trying to do, _kill_ him by assigning him to a guy who’s _just_ like Starsky?

Hutch sucks in a deep breath and then shakes Callahan’s hand, returning Callahan’s smile with a courteous one and noting the firmness of the other detective’s grasp. Okay, _okay_ , calm down, Callahan isn’t _that_ similar to Starsky. Callahan’s taller than Starsky, for one. Callahan’s coloring comes from dark Irish stock, not Polish, and Callahan is young, much younger than he is. Can’t be older than thirty.

What the hell is Dobey doing partnering him up with such a young buck?

“Callahan recently moved from NYC and applied for work in this division.” Dobey is glowering at him and obviously knows he hasn’t read the file on Callahan. “He’s worked in Homicide, has a stellar record, and I’m _sure_ you two will _get along_.”

The way Dobey growled the last portion of the last sentence, he might as well have smacked Hutch across the head as an equally effective admonition to behave and not be a bastard to Callahan.

_No worries, Captain, I’ll be on my best behavior. Cross my heart and hope to die._

Hutch knows, though, that claiming something and _doing_ that something can be two very different things.

The situation quickly veers into awkwardness once he and Callahan are out of Dobey’s office and back in the squad room. The hubbub decreases to near silence as he and Callahan approach the desk. He can tell the other detectives are observing Callahan’s every action even as they’re slogging away, speculating whether the newcomer will be capable of filling the shoes left behind by Starsky, if at all.

For Hutch, the answer to that question is one he isn’t going to share with anyone anytime soon, not if he doesn’t want the whole world to know about _that month_.

The tension in the room is dense enough to cut through with a knife when Hutch stands at his usual end of the desk, facing the other detectives, facing the section of the desk where he and Starsky used to sit, face to face. He can’t bear to sit down in his usual spot because it means having to tell Callahan he’s free to sit in Starsky’s spot and … yeah, Starsky’s already upped and left, but Hutch can’t bear to have anyone else sitting there. Not today. Not yet.

So he stands, and so does Callahan who does so placidly and with a dignity Hutch rarely sees in a kid of Callahan’s age.

Damn, when did he begin perceiving people in their late twenties as _kids?_

He is getting _old_.

“So you worked Homicide in NYC?”

Hutch has to stand totally upright to look Callahan in the eye. It’s going to take a while for him to get accustomed to it.

“Yes, sir. For two years.”

“Please, call me Hutch.”

Callahan smiles upon hearing his benign request.

“Yes, si- Hutch.  I’m truly honored to be partners with you. You’re a legend even in NYC.”

A stifled snicker waffles its way to Hutch’s ears. He doesn’t know who the culprit is, but he also doesn’t care to know. He feels like rolling his eyes or slapping one hand over his eyes and sighing. Oh, great, a _hero worshipper_. That’s the last thing he needs in a new partner, thinking he’s a _legend_.

“Even my Pop and his buddies talked about you after you took down James Marshall Gunther.” Callahan pauses, then says, like an addendum, “Oh, my Pop was an NYPD detective too. Worked the Special Victims division.”

_Is that how you got this job, kid?_

Before Hutch has even completed the thought, he is already ashamed of it. It doesn’t help that, right then and there, that Starsky-like voice in his head speaks up.

_Give the guy a chance, Blondie. You don’t even know him yet. And a file says shit all about a man’s heart._

How pathetic is he, that an imaginary, non-corporeal version of Starsky that exists only in his brain is giving him solace right now?

“I’m Danny Simmons, nice to meet ya.”

Oh, Simmons has come up to them. Simmons is as tall as they are and looks them both easily in the eye. Simmons’ hair is similarly cut like Callahan’s too, except Simmons’ style has a right parting while Callahan’s has a middle parting. 

Simmons’ wide grin is affable and authentic as he points with a thumb at Babcock sitting at the desk and says, “That’s my partner, Kevin Babcock, over there. I like to call him Babs. _Hey, Babs!_ ”

In response, Babcock smiles and flips the bird in Simmons’ direction with his right hand while carrying on writing on a notepad with his left. Simmons cackles and says to Callahan, “Don’t worry, that’s for me, not you.”

Callahan chuckles, then shakes hands with Simmons.

“Joey Callahan. Nice to meet you too.”

Hutch takes note of Callahan’s truncation of his first name and jots it down on his mental rolodex of identities.

Simmons’ smile widens upon hearing Callahan’s accent.

“Hey, guys, he’s a New Yorker!” Simmons says to the others who are overtly listening to the conversation. Then Simmons asks, “Where were you posted in NYC?”

Callahan’s self-effacing reply stuns both Simmons and Hutch.

“Hell’s Kitchen.”

“You serious?” Simmons asks after a few seconds of speechlessness.

“Yeah.”

Hutch scrutinizes Callahan’s face again, this time with the eyes of a compeer. Nope, he hadn’t gotten it wrong the first time, Callahan _can’t_ be older than thirty. But to be that young a cop in _Hell’s Kitchen_ , the home territory of the extremely violent Irish-American gang, the Westies, notorious for dismembering, sometimes torturing to death their victims and for being a contract killer crew for the Gambino family … _damn_.

“So you, uh, had to deal with quite a _lotta_ bad shit back there.”

Callahan chuckles again and replies, “That’s one way of putting it. My partner and I were mostly assigned to gang or mob-related murders in the area, yeah.”

“Westies-related crimes?”

“Yeah.”

Simmons whistles in approbation.

“Not the type to shy away from the gruesome stuff, huh?” Simmons says, giving Callahan a friendly smack on the upper arm. Then, expression more somber though no less pleasant, he asks, “Got too rough?”

Callahan’s expression also becomes somber.

“In some ways.” A brief pause, and Callahan adds, “My partner passed away.”

Hutch glances sharply at the younger man. He senses Simmons’ eyes on him, and fuck, he knows exactly what Simmons is thinking about and now he’s thinking about it as well, about a ping pong game and bantering over food and … and gunshots and _bullets_ , so many of them, plowing their way through Starsky’s torso, shattering the Torino’s windows. The screeching of wheels on cement, more gunshots from his Magnum and his bellowing of Starsky’s name.

And the soundlessness, the soundlessness as he scurried around the front of the Torino and saw his worst nightmare come true: Starsky, sprawled on his side, head cradled by the back wheel’s rim, with blood running in rivulets from his mouth. All that blood drenching Starsky’s shirt, running to the ground in a widening lake of crimson under Starsky’s blighted body.

Starsky, looking like he’s already dead, beyond Hutch’s reach.

Over a year after the shooting in the Metro’s car park, here in the present, Hutch grits his teeth and recites an old invocation that had once supported him through dark, desolate nights in a hospital’s ICU room: Starsky’s alive. Don’t forget that. _Starsky’s alive_.

Hutch raises a hand to Callahan’s shoulder and squeezes it.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Callahan,” he says compassionately.

Callahan’s smile, though bordered by despondency, is also one of gratitude.

“Please, call me Joey.”

With that, an invisible wall between them crumbles, and even as Simmons smacks Callahan on the upper arm for the second time and says, “Welcome to the squad, Joey. Good to have ya with us,” other detectives are approaching them and introducing themselves to the newest member of the team. The hubbub of the squad room is coming back at full force, perhaps even more lively than before in spite of Dobey standing in the doorway of his office with that gleam in his brown eyes again … and Hutch has the strangest feeling that it isn’t _quite_ the end of his world, after all.

 

& & & & & &

 

Two days later, Hutch learns from Simmons that Starsky has transferred to the Narcotics department. Hutch is bowled over by this news, in view of the catastrophe that went down between him and Starsky and two (now former) Narco detectives when a joint drug bust had ended with a million dollars’ worth of cocaine going missing.

“Say, Hutch, didn’t you and Starsky bust two bozos from Narco a couple of years ago?”

Leave it to Simmons to bring up the very issue he’d rather not discuss in the squad room, regardless of it being lunch time.

“Yeah,” he replies at length, mindful of Callahan who’s sitting opposite him at the desk and reading through the file on their first case’s victim again, a young woman called Shania Thomas whose future was marred by drugs and prostitution and whose life was cut short by strangulation with a rope, her corpse abandoned in an alley just three blocks away from her pimp’s house where she’d lived. They’d already interrogated the pimp, a sleazy, greasy-haired, emaciated man in apparel more expensive than Hutch’s entire wardrobe, and Hutch got to see his new partner in action, up close and personal and with a fair amount of grimacing.

If that pimp hadn’t treasured his testicles before, he sure must be after Callahan had kicked a foot in a leather, wing tip shoe straight into them.

Not that the fucker didn’t deserve it, what with bragging and spitting into their faces about how easy it is to replace a ‘useless whore bitch’ like Shania.

Shania was only twenty years old.

“Burke and Corman, right?”

Hutch rubs his forehead with his thumb and forefinger, then takes a sip from his half-full cup of coffee. As much as he likes the guy, Simmons can be pretty obtuse sometimes.

“Yeah.”

“A little birdie chirped in my ear that the only reason Starsky got into Narco so fast is ‘cause one of the old-timers recently resigned.”

Glancing at Simmons, Hutch says, “Resigned because of what?”

Simmons shrugs. Simmons is sitting next to him, chowing down on a salami sandwich, feet crossed at the ankles.

“Word is the guy wanted to, as he told everybody, ‘spend more time with his wife and kids’.”

“Seems reasonable to me,” Callahan says, not looking up from the folder.

Simmons gulps down another mouthful of his sandwich and then says, “Yeah, but the thing is, just a few months ago, the guy was gunning for a promotion. Like, the guy _really_ wanted it. And he just quit! No warning whatsoever.”

Hutch stares at Simmons with a small, amused smile. Where does this guy find the _time_ to gather all this _intel_ on people here and still maintain such a decent arrest record?

“Simmons, people can change their mind.”

“ _Yeah_ , yeah, I know, but lemme ask you, Hutch. Would _you_ just quit the force, _just_ like that, ‘cause you wanna _spend time_ with the wifey and kids when you were going all out for a major promotion?”

Hutch ruminates on the question for a minute. If somebody had asked him that five years ago, he would have laughed his ass off and said hell no … but now? With Stacey in his life, a woman he can actually _see_ as his future wife?

“I don’t know … If I love my wife and kids more than my job, and I have good reasons for it, I just might. Who are we to question the guy’s reasons for resigning?”

“I’m just saying, it’s _weird_ , that’s all,” Simmons mumbles, seconds before Babcock stomps into the squad room with a heap of computer print-outs that he lobs onto the table in front of Simmons.

“ _Yeesh_ , Sims, I go to the Computer Center for _twenty minutes_ and you’re _still_ eating your stupid sandwich.”

“ _What_ , haven’t you ever heard of something called _enjoying_ the _finer_ things in life? Get some _culture_ , man.”

“I’ll _culture_ your _lazy ass_ –“

“ _Excuse me_ , but who saved _your_ ass yesterday from Dobey –“

Hutch and Callahan exchange amused smirks as Simmons and Babcock initiate yet another domestic-like squabble over the most random of things. The way they bicker daily, they should just get _married_ and be done with it.

_Hey, Blondie, if gay marriage really becomes legal one day, would you marry me and live with me and get that retirement home in Rio together?_

Hutch runs fingers through his short hair, over the crown of his head all the way down to the nape of his neck.

_Gee, it’s kind of difficult to get to the marrying stage when friendship isn’t even on the table anymore. And whose fault is THAT, hm?_

The Starsky-like voice doesn’t reply him. Hutch – 1, imaginary, non-corporeal Starsky – 0. Hutch ignores the rational part of his brain that tells him arguing with himself is no cause for celebration and probably more a sign of psychological imbalance.

“Hutch.” Callahan has closed the folder and is resting his forearms on the table. “I think we should go back to Ozerenko’s house instead of grilling him. Talk to the women he has living there with him. Let him stew. We got him in custody anyway.”

“You thinking about talking to the redhead?”

“The one who kept looking at us the whole time Ozerenko was rampaging around like a nutcase?”

“Yep.”

Callahan smiles at him, eyes glinting.

Hutch smiles back and says, “Okay, let’s go talk to a redhead.”

With Ozerenko safely behind bars for possession of eight grams of cocaine for now – or until he gets around to paying bail – Hutch and Callahan return to the pimp’s house on Elm and 2nd in Hutch’s LTD. Soon, not only are they listening to the redhead, Danielle, spilling the beans on Ozerenko but all three of the other women too, all in their early twenties at most and garbed in florid t-shirts or tank tops and short shorts. Ozerenko’s account of being indoors the whole time the night Shania was murdered is confirmed by Amanda, a leggy blonde, who’d been with him in bed till dawn. Despite the coke he had, Ozerenko had drunk himself into oblivion with a combination of vodka and white wine instead. And despite his vehement indifference towards Shania’s death, Danielle discloses that Shania had always been Ozerenko’s favorite girl and had pampered her the most, frequently buying her branded bags and shoes and giving her a bigger cut of the dough than the other girls.

“That isn’t fair towards the rest of you, is it?” Hutch says.

His real question is crystal-clear.

“We’d never hurt Shania,” Danielle replies, her cat-like, green eyes flaring. “Yeah, Sergey gave her more money, but he doesn’t know that she split the bonus with us. She is - _was_ our …” – her rounded face crumples for a moment – “She was our _friend_. She was like a _sister_.”

“But Ozerenko, would _he_ hurt her?”

“Naw,” Amanda says with a Southern accent, shaking her head, gazing blatantly at Callahan although Hutch is the one who asked. “He may be a greedy sonofabitch, but he ain’t like that.”

“So why did Ozerenko say what he did this morning?” Hutch says. “He sure didn’t sound like somebody who remotely _cared_ about Shania.”

“ _Pride_ ,” Danielle says. She’s dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “You’re two tough, handsome cops who were going to drag him to jail. In front of us.”

“He’s probably bawling his eyes out in jail right now,” mutters Zoe, a wavy-haired brunette, rolling her humongous hazel eyes. “He can be a real crybaby. He’s a screamer, not a hitter.”

Hutch and Callahan share a glance, then return eye contact with the four women seated on the sofa or floor of the carpeted living room.

“Did Shania have any regulars?” Callahan asks as he scrawls the details so far onto a pocket-sized, black notebook with a pen.

“Yes.” This time it’s LeeLee, an Asian woman with jet-black hair, who speaks. “But … they’re not men. Shania, uhm, likes women clients. She prefers them over men.”

“ _All_ her clients were women?”

Callahan isn’t batting an eyelid. Neither is Hutch. Throughout his years of police service, Hutch has borne witness to many dreadful, traumatizing acts and incidents, some of which still have the power to literally make him holler and lurch awake in bed from nightmares about them. Prostitutes going gay-for-pay, voluntarily so, is low on the list of those dreadful acts … particularly in comparison to callous murder by strangulation.

LeeLee nods. She and the other women trade glances, and then she says, “One of Shania’s regulars is obsessed with her. Calls her a lot and writes her lots of letters. The client puts the letters in the, uh, mailbox herself. I caught her once at it, but she drove away before I could see her face.”

“Tell me you got a look at the license plate,” Callahan says, and LeeLee’s pert features break into a broad smile. She is indeed a beautiful girl, with eyes far too old and cynical for her youthful face.

As LeeLee recounts the car’s registration number to Callahan, Hutch asks the other women, “Did Shania keep these letters?”

“Yeah. They’re really _creepy_ stuff.” Amanda shudders, then asks, “D’you want them?”

“Yes, thank you,” Hutch says, smiling at her. She reminds him a great deal of Sweet Alice, who still calls him Handsome Hutch and is still willing to go straight and leave the same profession one day, just for him. He hasn’t seen her in a long time. He hopes she’s out of harm’s way, wherever she is.

Amanda comes back from one of the bedrooms with a gigantic stack of envelopes. There must be at least thirty letters. No address or stamps on the envelopes. Just Shania’s first name, handwritten in red. Hutch opens up the topmost one on the stack and comprehends straightaway why Amanda had described them as such. Whoever the writer is, she’d written with black ink in excessive detail of her objectives to enslave Shania, lock her up in a soundproof room and bind her in a variety of intricate bondage styles, amongst other alarming things.

“Domina ... Gotta be a nickname,” Callahan murmurs, frowning as he scans through another letter.

“BDSM, you think?” Hutch asks.

“All this _slavery_ and _tying up_ talk, and the _name_ … yeah, gotta be.”

“We were really disgusted when we read them,” Danielle says. Her eyes are dry, face composed once more. “I thought all of it was _sick_. But …”

“But?” Hutch encourages.

“But Shania didn’t. She – she said she _liked_ it. I couldn’t believe it!”

Hutch and Callahan share another meaningful glance.

“Dan, it was her _thing_ ,” Zoe says, her nose wrinkled, her arms crossed over her chest. “You _heard_ what she said. She said the client _freed_ her, made her _realize_ things about herself that she never knew.”

“No! She wasn’t like that! That woman – that woman _changed_ her, that’s what happened!”

“Does it matter whether she liked it or not? Shania’s _dead_. Somebody _killed_ her,” Amanda murmurs, her head bowed, her lips twisted downwards and a profound dejection befalls all four women, hushing them. Stripping off their thick-skinned facades to reveal them for what they truly are: Four young women who are living a grueling life together, whatever the circumstances might be that had brought them under one roof, and have just lost of their own.

Hutch and Callahan put away letters into their envelopes, giving them a few minutes’ reprieve.

Then, Hutch quietly asks, “Does Ozerenko know about all this?”

Zoe shrugs.

“Yeah, he knows about the client and the letters. He thought it wasn’t a big deal as long as the client didn’t hurt Shania and paid a lot. Which she does. _A lot_.”

“How much?”

“Hundreds of dollars each time,” Danielle replies. “One time, Shania said she was paid a thousand for staying overnight with the client even though she never asked for more.”

“At the client’s residence?” Callahan asks.

“No. In a hotel. They always met up at hotels. Except the … the last time ... I think ... I don’t know.”

“We got a buddy system,” Zoe says, subtly edging closer on the sofa to Danielle who is now staring at the floor, face blank with delayed shock. “We _always_ tell Sergey and each other where we’re going with a client. Shania, she – she wouldn’t tell us where she was going that night. Like it was something _private_ to her and she didn’t want to share it with us.”

“And she’d never done that before,” Hutch says.

Zoe shakes her head.

“No. Never. Not until this creepy client came along.”

Hutch glances down at the stack of envelopes in hand, then looks up again at the four women and says, “Thank you very much for your cooperation. You’ve all been very helpful. Can we keep these letters?”

“Do whatever you want with them,” Zoe says. “We don’t want that shit lying around anyway.”

As Hutch and Callahan turn to leave the living room, Amanda abruptly jumps to her feet and approaches Callahan, gazing at him with coy blue eyes. She is face to face with him when she sighs and says ruefully, “Gosh, if I’d lived a different life, I think I could have had something with you.”

Callahan’s face reddens, but he is also smiling cordially as he replies, “Please take care of yourself, ma’am.”

“You too, handsome.”

Hutch and Callahan are halted in their tracks a second time while they’re walking away from the main entrance of the house to the LTD, by Zoe who’s opened the door again and is standing there, her hazel eyes raging.

“You’re gonna _get_ her, right?”

They turn around to fully face her, standing side by side on the tiled path winding through the grassy front yard.

“If she is the murderer, yes,” Hutch says with confidence. “We will.”

“Good.” Zoe folds her arms over her chest, squaring her shoulders. Her diffident expression and lowered eyes, however, are at odds with her posture. “Cops usually don’t care about – about us _whores_.” She hisses out the last word like a curse, as if she’s heard it spewed in her face countless times. “Like we aren’t _human beings_.”

With less distance between them now, Hutch notices for the first time the makeup caked around Zoe’s humongous eyes. Swollen, glistening eyes.

Her gaze flits all over the place as she mumbles, “Thanks. For … you know.”

Hutch nods and says kindly, “We’re just doing our jobs.”

Zoe nods back, still avoiding eye contact. Then, without another word, she shuts the door, and Hutch and Callahan resume their journey to the car. Once they’re on the road and heading back to the Metro, Callahan, who is frowning again, says, “There’s something I don’t get. What Zoe said about Shania and her client, Domina.”

“That wherever she was going seemed like something ‘private’ to her?”

“Yeah. _Why_ would Shania suddenly break habit, a habit that could make the difference between life and _death?_ And for _this_ particular client? The _money?_ ”

Hutch keeps his eyes on the road as he ponders on the questions and on Zoe’s statements. Hmm … something private, something Shania didn’t want to share with others. It can’t be money, since Shania was apparently generous enough that she would divide the extra cash she received from Ozerenko with the other women –

_Remember the times when it was just you and me, Blondie?_

Hutch is _very_ glad that the LTD has stopped at a red light or he would have most certainly rammed the car into the crate-laden truck in front. Fuck, of _all_ the times for imaginary Starsky to show up! And to say _that_ , of all the goddamn things, and remind him of _that_ _month_ when it’d been just him and Starsky, him and Starsky and no one else as they made lo-

“Hutch?”

Hutch straightens up in his seat, his blue eyes gone wide.

“Joey … maybe to Shania, Domina was a client … until she _wasn’t_ a client anymore.”

Callahan stares at his profile, speedily following his line of thought.

“You mean, they became _lovers?_ ”

“Yeah. Could be.” Hutch turns his head and gazes back at Callahan. “Danielle said that Shania _liked_ what she read in those letters. _That’s_ why Shania kept them, not because she wanted them as proof of Domina’s _tendencies_ or anything like that. She kept them because they were _love letters_.”

“But she couldn’t really tell the other girls that, because they were already disgusted by their content. And Zoe … didn’t she say that Shania said Domina, what, ‘freed’ her and helped her to ‘know things about herself’?”

“Exactly. To them, Shania’s just doing her job and this client of hers is a – a _freak_. But to Shania – _if_ this angle is accurate – to Shania, it’s not about selling her body for money anymore, it’s about being in an actual relationship with Domina.”

“Somebody with the same _fetish_.”

“Yeah. If the _attraction_ between them wasn’t mutual, Shania would have been _freaked out_ by all the letters, the calls, the _obsession_.”

Callahan nods.

“Okay … _yeah_ , let’s go with that angle.” The younger detective fidgets in his seat, then says, “So if you’re in love with somebody, or at least in a mutually beneficial relationship, why would you _kill_ that person? And leave their body in an _alley?_ ”

“Lovers’ tiff gone nasty?”

“If Shania was so confident about meeting Domina alone, to the point of hiding the address from the others, a fight _that_ bad is probably the last thing she’d have expected.”

“But it doesn’t exclude the possibility that that’s what happened,” Hutch says as the light changes to green and he steps on the accelerator.

“Yeah … but how often do you hear of crimes of passion involving a _rope_ to _strangle_ someone? According to the ME, the bruising around Shania’s neck showed that the rope had been tightened around it for quite a long time pre-mortem _but_ there’re no signs of struggle elsewhere on her body. Nothing under the fingernails, even. I mean, if you were being _strangled_ , even by a _lover_ , you’d fight like _crazy_. Grab at them and _scratch_ them.”

“And the other bruises and scratches on her body weren’t fresh ones. Inflicted at different times.”

“Yeah, that’s why we focused on Ozerenko. Pimp beating up one of his prostitutes, maybe he went too far this time. Typical scenario.”

“Except Ozerenko pampered Shania and took good care of her.”

“Yeah,” Callahan says, then lets out a heavy sigh.

Hutch taps his fingers on the rim of the steering wheel.

“What if Shania _consented_ to being strangled? Like maybe Domina wanted to do it and she consented because …”

“Because the customer’s always right?”

“Yeah. Or _master_ , if we’re going to go with the BDSM angle.”

Callahan mulls on this for a couple of minutes.

“I think that’s a bigger possibility. Hutch, I was looking at the pictures of the crime scene again, at lunch, and it kept bugging me, the way her body was left in the alley. When we were still thinking Ozerenko was the perp, it didn’t quite make _sense_ , how she was carefully laid out on her back, with her clothes all neat and buttoned and zipped up like that. When you’re _mad_ and you’re looking to dump a body as fast as possible, you’re not going to _worry_ about how the body looks like when you dump it.”

“But if you _loved_ that person …”

“You gotta be seriously fucked up to dump the body of somebody you _loved_ in a _filthy alley_.”

“Not arguing with you there, Joey, but my point still stands. If you _loved_ that person, you _would_ worry about how the body looks, because you’re still emotionally attached to that person. You’re still _seeing_ the person as a _person_ , not just a corpse. That would explain the neatness and care to Shania’s body even after death.”

“Hutch … it’s possible this isn’t a murder at all.”

Hutch sends Callahan a questioning glance. Callahan is gazing out the windshield, his brows creased in concentration.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you said it, maybe Shania consented to being strangled. Maybe this was a BDSM session gone wrong.”

“Maybe. Domina did write in her letters that she wanted to tie Shania up in all sorts of ways. And a rope had been used to strangle her.”

“And there’s erotic asphyxiation.”

The glance Hutch sends the other man this time is a mixture of surprise and amusement, with one of his eyebrows quirking up. He smirks when Callahan’s complexion becomes ruddy.

“I _read_ about it before, _okay?_ ”

“Okay, okay, I believe you. So you think this might be a case of erotic asphyxiation gone too far?”

“It fits. It explains the lack of struggle on Shania’s part. And tox came back clean, so she wasn’t drugged. _And_ you’d have to really trust somebody to let them do that to you.”

“Good point,” Hutch says as he parks the car in front of the Metro. “Once we get Domina’s address, we can ask her for ourselves.”

As they get out of the LTD, Callahan says, “Hey, Hutch, where’d _you_ learn about erotic asphyxiation?” and Hutch snickers and runs up the steps to the main entrance before Callahan can ask him again.

First, they submit the letters they’ve collected to Property as evidence for their case. Then they take an elevator up to the Computer Center where former Traffic Coordinator and martial arts aficionado Minnie greets them both with a bubbly smile from behind a reception counter. Her smile bubbles even more when she lays eyes on Callahan for the first time.

“Oh, _heeeeeello_ , handsome!” Minnie says to a red-faced, smiling Callahan. “You must be the new guy everyone’s talking about!”

“Hi,” Callahan replies, not quite looking Minnie in the eye and scuffing his shoe on the floor, and Hutch has cover his amused smile with one hand when Minnie stage whispers to him, “He’s so _cuuuute!_ Is he single?!”

“Minnie, this is Detective Joey Callahan, just moved from New York City. Joey, this is Officer Minnie Kaplan, a beautiful, smart lady of _many_ talents,” Hutch says when he’s able. “One of which is to karate fight to ear-splitting disco music.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Officer Kaplan,” Callahan says, extending his right hand for a handshake and still smiling and very much red from forehead to chin.

“Everybody calls me Mother Minnie, but _you_ , you can call me _Honey_.”

“Be gentle with him,” Hutch says to Minnie, deadpan, and has to cover his mouth another time at Minnie holding onto Callahan’s hand long after they’ve stopped shaking hands.

“So! How can I help you?” Minnie asks, her sparkling eyes seeing only Callahan now.

“We, uh, we need the, _uh_ , address for this car registration number.”

Hutch props himself up against the counter, leaning sideways with his hands crossed in front, not bothered to conceal his grin of amusement anymore as Callahan, his right hand still held captive by Minnie, tussles one-handed with the jacket of his plaid two-piece suit for his black notebook in its inner pocket.

“I, _uhm_ , I need my, uh, right hand, please.”

Minnie reluctantly releases it only six seconds after Callahan’s stammered request.

“Oh, I’m sorry! What was I thinking, not letting go of your big … warm, _wonderful_ hand.”

For the sake of his aching sides, Hutch turns and rests his back against the counter, facing away from Minnie, in the ongoing battle with mirth. Ah, in all the years he’s worked here, Minnie has scarcely shown as much interest in him as she is in Callahan. Then again, maybe Nordic men simply aren’t her type. Maybe she prefers guys with thick, dark hair and prominent noses and huge smiles.

Like Starsky.

Just thinking the name sobers him up fast. Shit, Minnie has to know by now that Callahan is his new partner. She’ll surely ask him about Starsky, sooner or later.

His prediction comes true in just four minutes, after Callahan has given her the car registration number to search in the computer system and they’re waiting for the results.

“You’re looking really good too, Hutch,” she says, her eyes crinkling with genuine warmth and approval. “Love the new hairdo and the jacket!”

“Thanks, Minnie,” he replies, smiling too although his gut is clenching. Oh boy, _here_ it comes –

“So … have you seen Starsky lately?”

He doesn’t really understand why there is such a marked difference in him thinking the name in his head and listening to someone else say it directly to him, a difference akin to being in a helicopter above an active volcano and actually being _in_ the volcano, vaporizing in its lava. Maybe it’s the way Minnie said it, like she _misses_ Starsky and wants to see him again and _talk_ to him and _goddamnit_ , no, that is _not_ how _he_ feels. No.

Several planets’ worth of snow amasses itself around the ice fortress within him, dampening that menacing heat, that _heat_ that he knows fuck all where it’s come from that’s trying to get to his heart. Oh no, no, _no_ , no way is he letting that heat anywhere near again. Not after the _annihilation_ it triggered the last time.

“No. I haven’t.” Before Minnie can say anything, he smiles grimly and asks brusquely, “You got that address?”

He pays no attention to Callahan silently gazing at his face. Callahan can look at him all he wants, he has no problem with that. There’s nothing to see there anyway, just his face, nothing new. Nothing.

The drive to the address associated with the car registration number, 10500 National Boulevard, is a tense, nonverbal one, a total turnabout from the previous drive. Hutch can sense the nervousness in Callahan now, towards him, and he’s pissed at himself for causing the formation of the foundations of their working relationship to be set back this way.

_Great going, Hutchinson. Partners for less than seventy-two hours, and now he thinks you’re an asshole._

Hutch is beginning to dislike this inner voice as much as the Starsky-like one. At least that one calls him affectionate nicknames.

After parking the LTD in front of the apartment block and turning off the ignition, Hutch turns to Callahan and says mildly, “Ready to say hello to Domina a.k.a. Tina Bonham?”

“Ready when you are.”

They breeze through the lobby and take an elevator up to the fifth floor. No one responds when Hutch knocks on the solid oak door of apartment 5G, so Hutch knocks harder, calling out Bonham’s full name and identifying themselves as police.

No answer.

“Break in?” Callahan asks him nonchalantly.

Hutch nods and gives the door a swift and mighty kick. The door slams open on the first attempt, banging against the wall to the right. The first sound Hutch hears is the shower running, and for one second, Hutch is embarrassed as hell that he might have just unnecessarily broken down someone’s front door but Callahan already has his gun drawn and has darted to the end of the hallway and is peering around the corner.

“Hutch, the bathroom door’s open,” Callahan whispers.

With his Magnum out as well, Hutch traverses the open living area with Callahan behind him, agilely slinking around tatty furniture and a kitchenette towards the bathroom. Its door is half-shut. Through the gap, Hutch sees a white porcelain sink and a rectangular mirror hung on a tiled wall above it. Steam is fogging the mirror.

Hutch gesticulates with his thumb to his chest then the bathroom door that he’ll go in, then with his head towards the shut bedroom door. Callahan nods in acknowledgement. Hutch hears the click of the bedroom door opening as Callahan enters it. He sneaks up to the bathroom door and nudges it with the muzzle of his gun. It swings open with a creak.

The shower is running at full blast. Really hot water, based on the high temperature that blasts Hutch in the face as he steps inside.

He glances downwards.

The white tiles of the floor are streaked with red.

“ _JOEY!_ ”

The next six minutes are a haze of flurried, fraught actions by both Hutch and Callahan to tow a semi-conscious, soaked Tina Bonham in her underwear, gravely bleeding from multiple, self-inflicted gashes to her forearms, out of the shower and into the bedroom to administer first aid to her. Hutch rips a bed sheet into wide strips and bandages Bonham’s forearms with them while Callahan calls for an ambulance using a phone on the bedside table.

“We need an ambulance at 10500 National Boulevard, I repeat, _10500 National Boulevard!_ Apartment 5G, _NOW!_ ”

The water and blood from Bonham’s limp body are saturating the bed underneath her. She’s sprawled on her back, her hazel eyes staring blindly up at the fractured plaster ceiling. Her pallid lips are moving soundlessly.

“Ms. Bonham, _Ms. Bonham_ ,” Hutch says, pressing his hand against the side of her face. Her skin is unnaturally warm. “Ms. Bonham, can you hear me?”

“… I didn’t … mean to …”

“Hutch. Ambulance is coming.” Callahan is on the other side of the bed now, gazing down at Bonham, scowling. “Five minutes.”

Hutch nods at him, then also gazes down at the still semi-conscious woman, now pressing his hand on the crown of her head, on her scraggly, wet, chestnut hair.

“… I didn’t mean … to … I …”

“Ma’am, you’re going to be alright,” Callahan says, but his blue eyes are opaque with worry as they fleetingly glance at the makeshift bandages around her forearms. They are already turning crimson.

“… she … I did as … she asked …”

“Ms. Bonham, _Tina_ , who’s _she?_ ” Hutch asks gently. “Who’re you talking about, Tina?”

“… _Sha_ … Shania … she … giving it all … up … for _me_ …”

And all of a sudden, Hutch is in another place and another time, in another apartment that had belonged to another woman he had loved long ago. A woman who had been a prostitute, a lovely, blonde woman on the floor with her head turned away, dead.

_And there’s nothing you can do or say that’s gonna change that fact … or the fact that she loved you, and she was about to give ALL this up, just for you._

Stroking Bonham’s hair in a consoling manner, Hutch swallows thickly, the ice of his fortress thawing and the snow around it melting, if only for a while.

Oh, Gillian.

Oh, _Starsky_.

“… she wanted … try it again … she said … _tighter_ …”

Hutch and Callahan look at each other. Then Hutch asks Bonham in the same sympathetic tone, “Tina, tell us exactly what happened to Shania.”

“… she … the rope … wanted it tighter … felt good … so I did … she … didn’t _move_ …”

Bonham’s eyes abruptly widen, till the whites around the irises are visible.

“Shania? Where … where’s … _what did I_ …”

Bonham is lifting her arms above her face, staring at the bandages, at the blood. Hutch knows what’s coming, that gargantuan cudgel of fire, but this time it’s hurtling down towards someone else’s fortress, an ineludible force of devastation and Hutch sees the very instant it strikes and obliterates Bonham’s fortress to dust, in the scrunching of Bonham’s facial features, the tears that flow from her eyes, her shriek of anguish. It is a heart-wrenching sound, a sound Hutch is all too familiar with, inside and out.

“No … no, _NO_ , I didn’t mean to – I didn’t, _I didn’t know_ … I’m sorry, _I’m so sorry_ , Shania … _Shania, no_ …”

Hutch pays no heed to the blood besmirching his dress shirt as he enfolds his arms around her quaking shoulders and tucks her head under his chin. He stares sightlessly at a wall as Callahan sits on the side of the bed, hands on knees, head bowed, and they listen in muteness to a woman’s sobs of remorse, of love lost forever, and the distant blaring of an approaching ambulance.

An eon later, Hutch and Callahan are back at the Metro, sitting before their captain. Hutch’s white shirt is streaked with dried blood. The garish color is startling against its austere backdrop. Hutch has yet to have the opportunity to clean himself up or change his shirt due to accompanying Bonham in the ambulance and hanging around in the waiting area of the hospital until Bonham was treated and able to speak. Callahan had followed the ambulance in the LTD, and had been at his side when Bonham, propped up on pillows in bed with her forearms bound in beige dressings, divulged in a splintered voice her double life and the events leading up to Shania Thomas’ ill-fated death.

Bonham had used a false identity for the car and the rented National Boulevard apartment. Her real name is Tina Bennett, twenty-six years old, an insurance clerk for a hospital. Married to a Larry Bennett, a thirty-eight-year-old human resource manager for another hospital, since she was nineteen. He has no clue about her homosexuality. They live in a middle class house in Agoura Hills, about forty minutes’ drive from National Boulevard on a good day. They have a young child. Five years old. First year of kindergarten. A little boy who looks just like his dad.

She’d rushed into marriage with Larry in the hopes of it turning her straight. It hadn’t. She’d had a child with him, in the hopes of it turning her straight. It hadn’t.

She’d met Shania while shopping for shoes, a year ago. Shania had smiled at her, she said, and said hello. They’d talked, had coffee together at a cafeteria. When Shania told her candidly what she did for a living, she did what she thought she’d never have the courage to do and asked Shania for contact details so they could meet again. Just talk, get to know each other, maybe become friends. And Shania did so, with a sincere smile, and they’d met again a few days later, and again, and just like that, she’d found someone who wasn’t just a friend but more.

Someone who accepted her, as she is. Someone who finally understood her and her … alternative tastes. Someone as enthusiastic to experiment with, to be _herself_ with and not fear ostracization, fear for her life.

But Shania, who’d been prepared to give it all up just for her, is dead.

An accident, after which she’d lost her mind and has no memory of leaving Shania’s corpse in an alley. An accident, by her hand, and nothing she says or does is ever going to change that fact.

“A young woman dead, and another tried to commit suicide, and _her_ family will never be the same again. A damn tragedy, all around.”

Dobey is shaking his head, his expression lugubrious. Hutch and Callahan are of the same opinion, but they say nothing.

“Go home, you two. Especially you, Hutch,” Dobey orders in a low voice, eyeing Hutch’s tarnished shirt. “You can submit your reports tomorrow. But I expect you both back here at eight o’clock sharp in the morning. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Callahan replies for both of them.

Just as they are about to leave the office, he hears Dobey say, “Good work.”

It is the scarcest of praise from Dobey, and Hutch manages to give his captain a faint albeit earnest smile in return.

The walk to the LTD in the car park is a quiet, introspective one. Callahan’s handsome face is set in a frown, like he’s upset that he’s powerless to do anything about so much of the evil in the world. Hutch relates to that frustration.

“Hutch,” Callahan murmurs as Hutch drives him home, to an apartment on Orange Grove Avenue. “Do you think things might have turned out differently for Tina Bennett if she didn’t need to hide her sexuality?”

Hutch thinks on this for a while, then says, “Who knows, Joey. The same thing could have just as easily happened in a heterosexual relationship.”

“Yeah … but the fact that she had to _hide_ it, you know? Living a double life like that, pretending to be two different people when only _one_ of them was the real her …” Callahan sighs and shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe the whole damn mess might have been avoided if she … if she had people she could _talk_ to about the truth. People who won’t judge her. People who’ll accept her like Shania Thomas did. Maybe things might have been different for her then.”

Hutch purses his lips, gazing forward at the road ahead.

_Gee, Hutchinson, that situation sounds REAL familiar, doesn’t it? Getting a dose of déjà vu there?_

Hutch doesn’t have the energy to even tell the obnoxious voice to fuck off. Even worse … it’s _right_. Technically, that _was_ what he and Starsky did, pretend to be just best buddies in public while they were lovers in private.

_Correction, Hutchinson, just buddies fucking around. It meant NOTHING to Starsky, remember?_

Hutch’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel, till his knuckles go white. Just … _damn_ , how fucking _sad_ is it that he’s _envious_ of the real connection Tina Bennett had with Shania Thomas?

_Eight years. EIGHT years, Hutchinson, of being your best friend, and he ditched you with less care than the body of a young prostitute by her lover who accidentally choked her to death and went nuts._

Hutch waits for the Starsky-like voice to pop up. It doesn’t. And for some reason, it makes snow fall over the vastness of his mental landscape, white puffs drifting down from a gloomy, sunless sky. The chill is lulling. Numbing.

“It might have been different. Or it might have been worse,” Hutch murmurs eventually, forcing himself to relax. Callahan is gazing at his face. “Living a completely honest life has its consequences too.”

“But at least you can sleep well at night. And look people in the eye.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

At a red light, Hutch drums his fingers on the steering wheel, and then says, “Joey, here’s a question for you.”

Callahan angles his head, blue eyes bright with curiosity.

“Say there’re two men who spend seventy-five percent of all their time together.” He almost expects Callahan to say, _you mean, three-quarters_ , but when Callahan simply continues to look at him, he asks, “Do you think those two men may have homosexual tendencies?”

Callahan seems taken aback. The younger man blinks and tilts his head even more, a groove appearing between his eyebrows.

“You mean, _just_ from spending seventy-five percent of their time together?”

“In this case, yeah.”

“Well … I think the amount of time you spend with somebody doesn’t determine or change your sexuality. If that was true, all you gotta do to turn gay is spend lots of time with a gay person. And if you apply the same reasoning to gay people interacting with straight people, wouldn’t there be gay people turning _straight_ the same way too? It doesn’t add up.”

Hutch can’t help the upward curving of the ends of his lips in spite of the depressing, morbid day he and Callahan have had. If other young people of Callahan’s age are thinking similarly, perhaps there _is_ hope for a future with tolerance and acceptance of gay people.

_Hey, Blondie, at this rate, maybe gay marriage WILL become legal one day, huh?_

Oh, _now_ the imaginary, non-corporeal Starsky decides to show up … but Hutch doesn’t have the energy to be angry. He doesn’t have the energy either to blot out the image surging to the forefront of his thoughts: Starsky, in a tailored tuxedo, smiling, as a ring molded from the most precious metal on earth is slipped onto the left hand’s fourth finger. Smiling that huge, happy smile. At him.

The snow falls ever harder, and still, Hutch’s heart curls in on itself inside its solitary fortress towering once more over a frozen land.

“I mean, gay people are _people_ , like everyone else,” Callahan says, waving his hands in emphasis. “Like cops are people. Prostitutes are people. _Pimps_ are people.” Callahan falters for a second. “Even murderers are people.”

“That they are.”

“I think – I think what _counts_ is whether you’re _good_ people or not. You commit a crime, especially when you harm or _kill_ someone else, and you gotta pay your dues, no matter what job or ethnicity or sexuality you got.”

Hutch smiles genially at Callahan.

“If only the whole world thought the same way, huh?”

Callahan snorts, but is also smiling.

“My Pop once said that if something like that happened, the whole world would just _implode_ on itself because it’d be too perfect to exist. And we cops would be out of a job.”

“And dead from the planetary implosion.”

Their shared chortle, ephemeral as it is, is one that feels good and chases off the gloominess, even if it’s just for a while.

When Hutch is back at his Venice Place apartment, he heads straight for the bathroom and takes a long shower, scrubbing his skin clean of sweat and Tina Bennett’s blood. He throws the bloodied dress shirt into the trashcan. Wearing only his robe, he goes to the living room and sits on the couch, staring at the phone on the side table. He’s thinking about calling a certain person with thick, dark curls and big blue eyes … and it isn’t Stacey, who is probably asleep by now.

He stares at the phone, thinking about affectionate hugs from muscular, strong arms, about tender touches to his face by large, calloused hands. About fond, empathetic smiles on lips that his own still remember, as if he had only kissed them yesterday. Lips he misses, more than ever.

_You did good today, Blondie. I’m proud of ya._

When Hutch shuts off the lamp on the side table and trudges to his bedroom, the phone is still where it is, its receiver never picked up, its buttons never pressed.

When Hutch crawls into bed naked, he spends hours staring up at the ceiling, and tells himself that all of it means nothing to him too.

Alone again, in his fortress of ice. Naturally.

 

& & & & & &

 

The next three Starsky-less weeks stream away like grains of sand through Hutch’s fingers, steadily, uncomplicatedly. Simmons, his fountain of intel on two legs, casually informs him at the water cooler four days after the Shania Thomas case that Starsky is currently incognito for a Narco mission. Has been for the past five days.

Well, that explains why Hutch hasn’t seen him around.

“I dunno any of the Narco guys, but Diaz knows some of them and one of them told him that Starsky and his new partner are working undercover.”

Bartholomew Diaz is one of their fellow homicide detectives, a happily married Mexican-American in his late forties with two sets of teenage twins. A real nice guy with whom everyone gets along with, including Hutch and Simmons. It’s no bombshell to Hutch that Diaz is friends even with cops from the Narcotics department.

“Team effort, or just Starsky and his partner?”

Hutch prides himself on his voice not hitching at the last word.

“Four Narco guys. Starsky, D’Amato and another set of partners. No word on what they’re doing or where they are.”

Hutch also prides himself on his hand not trembling as he drinks the cool water from a paper cup.

Starsky, out there with someone else. Out there under a false name, a false identity, in what must be a perilous situation … and Hutch isn’t there to watch his back. It’s going to take Hutch a _really_ long time to get accustomed to that. Particularly after what occurred in the Metro car park.

“Diaz is asking around some more about D’Amato. Seems the guy’s got his hooks in lotsa snitches on the streets and plays hardball _hard_ , if ya know what I mean.”

Hutch hadn’t asked Simmons or Diaz to inquire about Starsky’s new partner, but he isn’t going to discourage them. A masochistic part of him is undeniably curious about the guy, starving for info on the person who’s … replaced him in Starsky’s life.

_So have YOU replaced me with YOUR new partner, Blondie?_

Hutch drains his cup and then chucks it into the trashcan next to the cooler.

_Maybe I should. You couldn’t wait to do it to me, so you’re not one to talk._

Imaginary, non-corporeal Starsky doesn’t reply, and Hutch adds another point to his score.

“What else do you have on D’Amato?” Hutch says cautiously as he and Simmons saunter away side by side from the water cooler towards the squad room down the hall. There are ears everywhere.

“Tony D’Amato,” Simmons says just as cautiously. “Forty-one years old. Italian-American. LA native. Divorced. No kids. Been in Narco for over ten years.”

“And his former partner?”

“A Joe Rivera. He and Diaz are acquainted. I’ll talk to Diaz and find out more about him.”

Hutch gives Simmons’ upper arm a friendly punch.

“Thanks, Simmons.”

“Oh, if you’re worried about any _tension_ between Starsky and his, uh, new _pals_ , don’t worry. Seems the other Narco guys never liked Burke and Corman.” Simmons smirks. “You and Starsky did them a _favor_ by busting them.”

The relief that deluges Hutch upon hearing that is intense. If that drug-related shitfest with Stryker has given Starsky an advantage with his new co-workers, Hutch is okay with that.

_What’s the matter with you? You’re supposed to be PISSED OFF at him, Hutchinson, not WORRY about him._

Hutch doesn’t think twice about telling _this_ voice to fuck off and go die in a swamp.

After the Shania Thomas case, Hutch and Callahan go on to solve three more cases in those three weeks, the first one a domestic abuse case featuring an enraged husband who caught his wife cheating on him and took matters into his own hands. Literally, with a baseball bat. The next two cases are straightforward gang-shooting cases in which Callahan’s experience serves them well. One of their apprehended criminals is from New York City, and recognizes Callahan.

“Hell’s Kitchen, right? _Yeah_ , that’s where I saw ya before. You and that other fat, piece a’ _shit_ cop! Is he _dead?_ ”

Callahan replies the perp with a fist to the face. Or he _would_ have, if it isn’t for Hutch’s hand wrapping itself around his fist.

“Joey, _no_ , don’t give him the satisfaction,” Hutch says into a glaring, panting Callahan’s ear, glaring at the handcuffed perp being shoved into a police car to be booked. Callahan barely says a word for the rest of the afternoon, glowering at the typewriter as he types his report for their latest case and replying to Hutch’s comments and questions with monosyllabic answers or grunts. Hutch feels no affront at Callahan’s surly behavior. He’s been down this road himself, many times. If somebody had called Starsky a ‘fat, piece of shit cop’, after making them run ten flights of stairs into a shootout on the rooftop of a rundown apartment building, he would have been furious too.

_Newsflash, Hutchinson, Starsky ISN’T your partner anymore!_

Hutch doesn’t react to that, and carries on typing up his own report, internally reiterating, _Joey Callahan is my partner now_ , till the sun is setting.

An hour after dusk, Hutch and Callahan clock out of another productive day of work. They’re in the LTD when Hutch asks, “So, what do you fancy eating?”

Callahan is surprised by his question. The younger detective glances sharply at him, lips twitching a bit, as if unsure of whether to smile or not. It belatedly crosses Hutch’s mind that this is the first time he’s asked Callahan to have a meal with him outside of work hours.

How long had it taken him to ask _Starsky_ out for dinner after they first met?

_Four hours, Blondie. You told Vanessa not to wait up for you because you were gonna be late that night, and you treated me to a big steak and beer and played pool with me the whole night, remember?_

Hutch smiles wistfully to himself. Remember? How can he ever _forget?_

“You pick,” Callahan says, mood noticeably blither.

“No,” Hutch replies, patting the other man once on the forearm. “It’s my treat tonight and I want _you_ to pick.”

“Really? Wow, okay. I _was_ thinking of …” Callahan, who is now smiling, is also scratching the side of his neck in discomfiture. “I … ah, you’re gonna laugh, man.”

Hutch smiles, pearly teeth gleaming in the illumination from the headlights of cars that zoom by.

“Try me.”

“I …” Callahan rolls his eyes self-deprecatingly, lets out an explosive sigh and then mutters, “I like vegetarian food.”

Although Callahan isn’t looking at him, Hutch schools his features into a poker face.

“Like, black bean and avocado guacamole?”

Hutch is _this_ close to laughing aloud at Callahan turning his head slowly to gawk at him with wide eyes.

A mirth-tinged hush reigns over them for a minute. Then, Callahan says, “Curried chickpea salad?”

Still deadpan, Hutch replies, “Sweet and spicy BBQ tofu?”

“Holy shit, you like vegetarian food _too!_ ” Callahan exclaims, rearing backwards in a dramatic fashion and pointing a finger at him, and both of them erupt into guffaws at the same time. _Ah_ , it feels good to have a nice, long laugh. He hasn’t had one of those for a while.

The lousy mood Callahan was in has dissipated by the time they’re halfway to the vegetarian restaurant on Willow Street. Callahan tells him that he’s hoping to purchase a car this weekend, preferably a tire-smoking, high-speed one, and Hutch has to bite his tongue to thwart himself from saying, _are you going to have it spray-painted tomato red and add a white stripe to its sides too?_

“Maybe a Chevelle Malibu. The 1977 Classic Coupe model.”

“You like your cars fast _and_ big.”

Callahan chuckles, his blue eyes crinkling.

“I want a car that gets me where I want as fast as possible and _protects_ me while I’m on the road too, you know?”

“I hear you on that. That’s why this beautiful babe’s mine,” Hutch replies, fondly tapping the car’s dashboard with his right hand.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah, Joey?”

“No offense, but your car’s a pile of junk. Did you get it out of the _dump?_ ” Hutch laughs good-naturedly at that, even more when Callahan, who is laughing along, says, “Tell me it’s not some _condemned_ car you got from the dump!”

_No, I was the one who got the car from the dump for ya, Blondie, despite my excellent taste in vehicles._

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but it _was_ condemned,” Hutch says, his laughter waning. “I lost my previous car in an … accident. Crashed down a ravine and it got totaled.”

“Ouch. Slippery roads?”

“More like a slippery _toad_ who tried to get me killed off by hiring someone to run me off the road. My legs were trapped under my car for two days.”

“ _Ouch_.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve gone through some pretty crazy stuff, huh?”

_Kid, you don’t even know the half of what I’ve gone through with Blondie here._

Hutch isn’t sure whether to smile or weep at the fact that this make-believe Starsky voice in his head is apparently here to stay and butt into every conversation he has with real people. He’s just damn glad nobody else can hear it, or he’ll be on a one-way trip back to Cabrillo State and he won’t be an undercover nurse this time.

Hutch isn’t sure whether to smile or weep, either, at the fact that he’d rather have make-believe Starsky in his head than no Starsky at all.

“Yeah, I guess I have. But I bet you have your own stories of crazy experiences to tell too,” Hutch says with a slight smile.

Once seated in the popular restaurant, they order portabella mushroom enchiladas, angel hair pasta primavera, sun-dried tomato and walnut penne pasta and two slices of peach crumb pie. They devour the enchiladas within minutes, ravenous as they are after their wild perp chase earlier today. As they wait for their main dishes to arrive, Callahan murmurs, “My Pop thinks I’m such a weirdo for liking vegetarian food.”

Recalling that the younger man’s father had been an NYPD detective, Hutch grins and says, “Let me guess, he’s a steak and beer sort of guy.”

Callahan also grins and replies, “Yeah. So was I, until I became a homicide detective.”

“Why’s that?”

Callahan shrugs.

“The bodies.”

It takes Hutch a couple of seconds to comprehend the concise answer.

“Ah. You said you and your partner were assigned to Westies-related murders.”

“Yeah. They like chopping people up.” Callahan shrugs again. “It’s the sort of thing you don’t forget, you know? When you see it for the first time.”

“I know what you mean. The first corpse I saw was of a man in his late fifties. Gunshot to the chest.”

It’d been his second plainclothes assignment, the first being a drug-related case in a high school (that would have grave repercussions for Starsky in the years ahead). The man had been found dead in Elysian Park in the early hours of morning by a homeless man, less than a mile away from the Police Academy. There was no wallet or any form of identification on the body. Hutch had surmised that it was a robbery gone real bad, and he was proven right just three hours later when a 24-hour convenience store, about three miles away from the crime scene, was robbed by a man in his early twenties with a pistol. The robber had unknowingly dropped his first victim’s wallet on the floor of the store in his haste to flee.

Luckily for Hutch, the robber had also dropped his _own_ wallet, packed with wads of money from who knows how many other robberies and, oh yes, an ID.

_It was my second plainclothes case too, Blondie. OUR case. Remember how I ran after him and jumped onto his back and flattened him on the sidewalk? That was fun!_

“Gunshot to the chest … I saw one of those back in NYC, but it was a suicide. Sort of. It was a woman who actually paid somebody to kill her.” Callahan shakes his head. “I think when I started seeing all these dead bodies, especially the _dismembered_ ones, my brain kinda rewired itself. Every time I want to eat meat, _red_ meat, my brain will dig up all my memories of crime scenes. The goriest ones. And then I lose my appetite.”

Just then, the waitress arrives with their pasta, and she gives Callahan an odd look as she serves their dishes. Callahan immediately flushes and presses his lips tightly together while Hutch’s shoulders shake with noiseless mirth.

“Perhaps we should postpone our discussion on dismembered corpses till later,” Hutch says, straight-faced.

“Yes, let’s,” Callahan says, also straight-faced.

Hutch finds the angel hair pasta primavera to be delectable and sadly all gone into his belly all too soon. In spite of their topic of conversation, Callahan’s appetite right now is as robust as ever, and Callahan has already wiped his mouth with a napkin and is nursing a hot cup of coffee when Hutch eats the final mouthful of angel hair pasta and then puts down his fork.

“That was _good_. I’m gonna have to remember the address of this place.”

“It’s my girlfriend’s favorite restaurant as well,” Hutch says, wiping his lips with his own napkin. “She’s a full-fledged vegetarian.”

“Yeah? So does that mean you’re a vegetarian-but-not-always-a-vegetarian like me?”

Hutch’s eyes twinkle as he replies, “Yeah. Don’t tell her.”

_Ya know it’s a bad sign when you’re hiding things from your girlfriend, right, Blondie?_

Hutch gazes down at his empty plate as he folds his napkin and then places it on the table.

_It’s anything better than being a two-faced liar about being just best buddies when you’re having mind-blowing sex with said best buddy, don’t you think?_

He receives no rebuttal, and adds yet another point to his score.

“Hey, Hutch?” Callahan is scratching the side of his neck again, a gesture Hutch has learned signifies embarrassment.  He wonders if Callahan is conscious of it. “Thanks for holding me back from doing something stupid today.”

“I know how tempting it is to just lash out.” Hutch draws in a deep, languid breath and then exhales as languidly. “When I was finally face to face with Gunther, I was really, _really_ tempted to execute him right there and then. Blow his brains out all over his desk.”

There is no judgment on Callahan’s face or in his blue eyes.

“It would have been so easy, to point the gun at his head. Pull the trigger. _Bang!_ ” Hutch makes a finger gun gesture with his right hand, recoiling it like he’d actually shot a bullet from it. “And that would have been the end of James Marshall Gunther. The man who sent two assassins after me and Starsky.”

Hutch doesn’t elaborate on what the bullets from the assassins’ machine gun had done to Starsky. Callahan knows all the grisly details by now on account of Simmons and the other guys in the squad. Something else to thank Simmons for, him not having to narrate the horror to Callahan himself.

“But I didn’t. If I had, I would have been no better than him. Maybe worse, because I _know_ the consequences of doing such a thing.”

_Like breaking up your partnership with Starsky by landing yourself in jail, hmm, Hutchinson? Newsflash again, the partnership’s kaput anyway!_

For what must be the hundredth time, Hutch tells this particular voice to get lost and rot.

Callahan nods. There is a reflective, solemn expression on his face.

“Alfie, my former partner, he told me that he was once really tempted to shoot a guy too. A pedophile. Caught molesting his neighbor’s little kids, and had been doing it for years without the parents’ knowledge. Alfie’s partner at the time had to put him in a chokehold to stop Alfie from killing the guy.”

“Alfie was older than you?”

“Yeah, he was in the force for at least eighteen years before I became his new partner.” Callahan smiles. It’s a bittersweet one. “He kinda reacted like you, the first time we met. Wondering what the hell the captain was doing pairing him up with somebody straight off the patrol beat to work in Hell’s Kitchen.”

Hutch takes a sip of his coffee, the white porcelain cup conveniently shielding his face from view. Damn, had he been _that_ transparent during his first meeting with Callahan in Dobey’s office? Or is Callahan just extrapolating off his past experiences with his previous partner?

“I was only informed of my partner reassignment the day before we met,” Hutch says as he puts down his cup back on its saucer. “I was … in a bit of shock.”

Callahan nods again, and Hutch is grateful that the younger detective doesn’t ask him to expound. He doesn’t know how much Callahan has figured out on his own by now, or what the other guys in the squad have told him.

“Yeah, I can understand. Kinda like waking up one day and finding out your partner’s gone for good, huh?” Callahan glances out the window, expression solemn once more. “Alfie, he was a good guy. If you didn’t know him, all you’d see was this really big, intimidating, bearded guy who looked more like a Hells Angel member than a cop. But once you _did_ get to know him, he was a great guy. He was really dedicated to the job. He taught me most of what I know today, about surviving on the streets, using my noggin to solve cases and _help_ people.”

“If there’s something else a cop never forgets, it’s their mentor.”

“Amen to that. Detective Sergeant Alfred Tennyson, may he rest in peace.”

Hutch bites his lower lip.

“ _Alfred Tennyson?_ ”

Callahan chortles.

“Yeah, his Ma had a thing for poets, and she just so happened to marry a guy surnamed Tennyson. Everybody else called him Alfie.”

Their slices of peach crumb pie arrive and are served by a different waitress who smiles at them. After a few mouthfuls, Callahan murmurs, “Alfie died from a heart attack two months ago. Went to sleep one night and never woke up. His wife called me first thing in the morning, crying her eyes out. She didn’t know whether it was something natural or …” Callahan shrugs another time. “We were getting lots of death threats at the time. Anonymous letters, phone calls, bricks through the window, the works. My car’s windows were smashed. One time Alfie found a decapitated cat’s head left in a paper bag at his front door, and a note telling him that was how he was going to end up if he didn’t back off.”

“Jesus.”

Callahan’s smile this time is a dour one.

“Guess we pissed off certain people who didn’t like that we were doing our jobs.”

“Do you think Alfie’s death was from natural causes?”

“Alfie drank and smoked now and then, but he wasn’t addicted to either. No family history of heart disease. So … I don’t know. My Pop certainly didn’t think so. He said he’d heard of certain drugs that can induce heart attacks and be totally untraceable in the blood stream after a certain period of time.” Callahan lets out a faint sigh. He’s gazing down at his half-eaten pie, poking it with a fork. “Ever since my Ma passed away from cancer when I was fourteen, my Pop’s always been protective of me. I’m an only child. Her death hit him hard.”

Hutch remains silent, letting the other man talk, open up. It’s a golden opportunity to learn more about this young New Yorker who has become a constant part of his life.

“Her death hit _me_ hard too. I went a little _strange_ for a while afterwards.” Callahan sits up and hurriedly clarifies, “See, my Ma loved baking. She had this secret recipe for coconut cookies that everybody loved, especially my Pop. When I was a kid, I used to help her out with the dough and all that, and I learned how to make it myself. After she passed away, I … I was _compelled_ to make them all the time, when I had the time.”

Callahan pauses, as if expecting Hutch to laugh or ridicule him for it. Hutch doesn’t.

Instead, Hutch says, “It’s not strange, Joey. It’s _human_ to grieve, to grieve in all sorts of ways.”

Callahan smiles back. Then, gazing down at the table, he murmurs, “My Pop got so mad at me when he found out about it. At first I thought he was mad because he thought men weren’t supposed to _do_ things like that, or something.” Callahan goes quiet for a minute. “Then one night, after I’d baked a batch and I was watching TV, he came home from work and went to the kitchen. I thought he was gonna yell at me again, but when I went into the kitchen too, he was sitting there at the table, staring at the cookies. Weeping. And then he told me how much he missed my Ma.”

Hutch gives Callahan an empathetic smile. He, of all people, understands what it feels like to lose a parent. He’s lost both.

“Ever since then, we’ve been real close. He’s always watched my back, on and off the job. Sometimes I think he gets _too_ protective, you know?”

“You’re his only child. You’re all he has left of your mom, in a way.”

“Yeah … But when I became a cop, the other cops didn’t think that way. They assumed I got in nice and easy because of my dad being a well-respected detective in the force. Made me pretty mad.” Callahan snorts. “So I requested to be posted in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“You really don’t do things by halves, do you?” Hutch asks, grinning, and they chuckle together, the atmosphere around them buoying up.

“Oh _man_ , my Pop was _so_ pissed at me. We fought like hell for weeks over it. He kept telling me I was too inexperienced to work in a neighborhood like that, that I oughta start slow and safer, and I wouldn’t have it. Yeah, I _know_ I’m his only kid … but I’m a cop too. I gotta do what I gotta do. If the mere _thought_ of danger scares me, then I’m not cut out to be a cop in the first place.”

“Did your father know about the death threats?”

“Yeah. Started the fighting between us all over again.” Callahan shakes his head, smiling sheepishly. “I knew he was mad out of love, though. He was _scared_ for me, scared that Alfie’s death was actually murder and that the mob was gonna come after me next. When Alfie passed away, I think maybe my Pop saw it as a chance to get me out of NYC and ship me off somewhere far away. Without a partner, I had to be assigned to temporary desk duty until I got a new one anyway.” Callahan makes a _tsk_ sound with his tongue. “At first, I really didn’t want to leave. NYC’s my home. Lived there all my life. Felt like I was being a coward, running away with my tail between my legs.”

"Joey, it isn't cowardly if you retreat so you can fight another day."

“Huh. I never saw it that way before.” Callahan grins at him, and for a moment, the grin reminds him so much of Starsky that something deep inside him aches. “I _liked_ working in Hell’s Kitchen, despite how bad it got in the end. I liked the place, the _people_. Maybe it’s the Irish blood in me, huh?”

Hutch smiles and says, “Maybe. So you ended up here because of death threats from the mob.”

“Kinda.”

At Hutch raising his eyebrows in inquisitiveness, Callahan says, “That’s only part of it, a small part.” Callahan sips some more coffee. “About a week after Alfie passed away, my Pop called me up for dinner. Said he had an important offer from California to discuss with me. At the dinner, he told me that an old pal of his in Bay City told him there was an opening in the Homicide department of the BCPD’s Metro division, for a detective. He wanted me to go for it, and I said _hell_ no! Move to the other side of the country when I’m doing just fine as a cop in NYC? _No!_ ”

Hutch chuckles at this.

“Yeah, you can tell I love NYC, huh? So anyway, my Pop wouldn’t give up. I got into a bad mood because I thought he was just that desperate to get me out of Hell’s Kitchen, you know? And then, he said to me, ‘Joey, the cop there who needs a new partner is Detective Kenneth Hutchinson. That guy who singlehandedly brought down James Marshall Gunther and crippled entire drug cartels across the West Coast. Your answer still no?’” Callahan sniffs. “I sent my resume and application by FedEx the next morning.”

Hutch laughs affably.

“I didn’t think I was gonna get the job, to be honest. I assumed the competition would be _stiff_. I mean, who _doesn’t_ want to work with _the_ Kenneth Hutchinson?”

_A certain David Michael Starsky who hates your guts now, for one. Right, Hutchinson?_

Hutch buries the tactlessly frank voice under a volley of snow, shutting it out.

Humbled by Callahan’s respect for him, Hutch says, “I’m just a guy. Just a regular guy who’s a cop.”

“Just a guy who singlehandedly brought down James Marshall Gunther and crippled entire drug cartels across the West Coast. _Yeah_ , just a _regular_ guy,” Callahan teases, lips twitching, and Hutch is grinning while they finish their dessert.

When they’re back in the LTD and Hutch is driving Callahan home, Callahan says, “I wasn’t kissing ass when I told you it’s a true honor to be your partner. I meant it. The experience you’ve had on the job, I know I’ll have much to learn from you, like I learned from Alfie.”

“Thank you, Joey. _I’m_ honored to be working with you.”

“Why? I’m just a regular cop.”

Hutch glances at Callahan, surprised at Callahan’s real bewilderment and pleased at the equally real modesty in the younger man’s tone.

“Do you _listen_ to yourself when you talk about your work experience in NYC?”

Callahan’s thick eyebrows furrow in even more bemusement.

“Uh … no. Why?”

“Joey, the crime scenes you’ve seen, and the _harassment_ you had to go through … there’re many cops who never experience what you’ve had to in their whole _careers_. And those who have, not all of them would have handled it as well as you obviously have.”

Callahan angles his head in contemplation.  Then he says insouciantly, “It don’t make me special or anything. Like I said, I gotta do what I gotta do, that’s all.”

_I like this guy, Blondie. He’s got a good soul. I told ya a file says shit all about a man’s heart, didn’t I?_

Hutch smiles to himself. Yeah, he likes the guy too. Pretty much struck gold with his new partnership. Heh, maybe his luck _isn’t_ as shitty as he thought it was. He hopes, for Starsky’s sake, that Starsky’s new partner is a decent guy as well … or the guy’s going to say hello to his _fists_. For starters.

 _There’s something seriously wrong with you, Hutchinson. You shouldn’t even be giving a shit about your EX-partner anymore. Have you already forgotten what he DID to you?!_  

Hutch simply laughs internally, feeling too serene to care, and his pessimistic inner voice scuttles away, defeated for now.

“Did you become a cop because your dad was one?” he asks Callahan while they’re cruising the Golden State Freeway and are passing Griffith Park.

Callahan cogitates on the question for a few minutes, gazing out the windshield.

“I guess so. I’ve never thought about it much. For as long as can I remember, I’d be listening to my Pop talk shop at the dinner table with my Ma, who was a part-time police dispatcher, or whenever they had friends in the NYPD come over for dinner. Cop stuff was life as usual. Must be in my blood too.” Callahan glances at him. “How about you, Hutch? Why did you become a cop? If you, uh, don’t mind me asking.”

“No, of course I don’t.” Hutch takes his turn to cogitate on the same question, pursing his lips in deliberation. Then, keeping his gaze on the road ahead, a bittersweet pang long submerged rising to the fore within him, he says, “I was born in Duluth, Minnesota. Lived on a horse farm, that was passed down to my father by his father, with my parents. My parents died when I was six years old. They were visiting friends in St. Paul and were killed in a car crash on the way home.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Must have been rough, losing your parents so young.”

Hutch gives Callahan an appreciative smile.

“Yeah. I didn’t understand what death was, at the time. All I knew was that they promised me they would come back ... but they didn’t.” Hutch pauses for a moment. “The first time I ever met a police officer was the day two of them came to my family farm and informed my babysitter – a neighbor called Debbie who lived a few miles from us – that my parents were dead. I remember one of them coming up to me and kneeling in front of me, ruffling my hair, smiling sadly at me as he told me my parents weren’t coming back.

“I didn’t understand what he meant at the time. But I remember his kindness. His strength as he carried me to the patrol car. It reminded me of my father. For years afterwards, my meeting with that cop stayed with me. And all the while, I was constantly moved from relative to relative all over Minnesota because they couldn’t … handle me.”

“Because you were grieving in your own way and they couldn’t understand?”

Hutch gives Callahan another appreciative smile.

“Something like that, yeah. As a pre-teen, I had terrible fits of rage. Sometimes even I was scared of myself. I was fourteen when I ended up with a relative who _could_ deal with me. My Aunt Lillian, my mother’s cousin who’d just moved back to Duluth from the United Kingdom.” Hutch chuckles to himself, blue eyes glimmering with nostalgia. “Boy, did that lady kick my ass. Told me to accept what happened and move on and make something of myself, or just throw myself off Eagle Mountain already.”

Hutch chuckles louder at Callahan’s aghast expression.

“The thing was, her realism and her treatment of me as a _person_ really did the job. My other relatives never bothered to get to know me or _talk_ to me, even. Most times I was just a troublesome extra mouth to feed. But Aunt Lil was different. I think her English husband suddenly passing away before she moved back had a lot to do with us bonding and understanding each other. I cleaned up real good under her guidance. Went from being an antisocial boy filled with anger to being the guy voted ‘most likely to succeed’ and the class valedictorian.

“After I graduated from university, I finally told her one night about my meeting with that cop. The next day, she handed me a stack of police recruitment brochures and looking at them, that was when it really hit me that I wanted to be a cop. A cop like the one who’d been kind to me. A cop who can make a _difference_ , and _save lives_.” Hutch sighs feebly. “And maybe, if I became a cop, and I manage to save somebody and that somebody has a family, has _kids_ … they’ll get to go home to those kids who’re waiting for them. And those kids won’t have to know what it feels like to lose a mother or a father. Or both.”

Neither Hutch or Callahan speak for some time. Callahan’s eyes are incisive and his expression meditative while he processes Hutch’s divulgence. Then, eyes warm, Callahan says, “Well, I’m glad you did choose to become a cop. You _have_ saved lives. Many lives.”

“As unbelievable as it sounds now, I almost didn’t. I was a lifeguard while I was in high school. I had this thing for the sea – still do – and I thought about becoming a sailor or a captain of a ship, living at sea. Then I went to the University of Minnesota Duluth, took my time to work out a future for myself. Even considered becoming a professional wrestler after becoming the intercollegiate wrestling champion for two years but … I guess I was fated to become a cop.”

“Why California, and not Minnesota?”

“Ah, now _you’re_ going to laugh. After graduating from university, I came up with this half-assed plan that if I couldn’t make it as a cop, then maybe I could make it as a _singer_.”

Callahan grins in amusement at him.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. That’s why I moved from Duluth to Los Angeles. Can’t be cop, might as well jump straight into the entertainment business.”

“You any good at singing?”

Hutch smiles broadly, thinking of the oodles of songs he’s written in notepads and his beloved guitar back in his apartment.

“I’ve been told once or twice I should give professional singing a shot and record an album. One day, I just might.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me you’re a certified pilot who speaks _French_.”

Deadpan, Hutch replies, “I am. And I do. Although I only studied one year of it in high school.”

He senses Callahan staring at the side of his face for a whole minute. Although everything he’s said is the truth, he has to fight the urge to laugh.

When Callahan blurts out, “You’re _unbelievable_. Regular guy, my ass!”, Hutch loses the battle and laughs merrily with the younger detective till his eyes tear up. Wow, he hasn’t connected with another guy like this since –

_Well, Blondie, I guess we’re even now, huh?_

Callahan doesn’t notice his swift sobering.

“I bet you volunteer for some charity or non-profit organization to help kids in need, too.”

Hutch blinks his eyes clear. Then he murmurs, “Yeah, I do, actually. For the Big Brothers, Big sisters of America. The ‘little brother’ I’m mentoring is a boy called Kiko Ramos. He’s about fifteen now. Really great kid.”

“Unbelievable.”

When Hutch turns his head to look at Callahan, he sees that Callahan is staring out the windshield, shaking his head but also smiling in what seems to be admiration. Hutch swivels his gaze back to the road ahead, smiling softly as well. Seeing himself from Callahan’s point of view, it’s damn difficult to feel miserable about himself. If Starsky wants out of his life so bad, inhibiting Starsky from doing so would have just made them both miserable.

And really, is it his loss … or _Starsky’s?_

He waits for a rebuff from imaginary, non-corporeal Starsky to that question. He receives none, but doesn’t add any points to his score. He doesn’t have the heart to do so.

The remainder of the drive to Orange Grove Avenue is tranquil. Hutch steers the LTD languorously down the street, heedful of the other residents whose homes have gone lights out for the night. He maneuvers the car onto the driveway of Callahan’s apartment with a swing of the wheel and parks there.

Callahan isn’t making a move to leave the car.

“Hutch?” Callahan says, and straightaway, Hutch knows without a doubt that the other man is going to ask him about a certain other New Yorker who’d once been such a constant part of his life.

“Yeah?” he says gently, relaxed in his seat, his hands loose on his thighs.

“Sorry if it’s not my place to ask this, but …” Callahan scratches at the side of his neck, eyes averted. “What happened to your partnership with Starsky?”

Inside Hutch, new layers of ice are creeping up over the walls of his fortress, solidifying them. Fortifying them.

Before Hutch can reply, Callahan hastily mumbles, “I mean, the other guys told me that you and Starsky were close as brothers. Closer than brothers, even. And I’d read that article by Christine Phelps about how you two worked together and the other articles about the mayor’s ceremony and, I was just … well …”

Hutch sighs, then says as gently, “The decision to end it wasn’t mutual. He requested for a transfer out of Homicide without … telling me.”

“Oh.”

"I wish I could tell you why, but I don't know the reason myself."

Callahan runs long fingers through thick, dark hair. Eyes still averted, he says, "I'm sorry … I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked –“

"No, you have the right to. _You're_ my partner now."

Hutch is inwardly astonished that his voice didn’t crack, or that the world hadn’t ceased to exist the instant he uttered those words. Callahan is looking him in the eye again, studying his face.

Callahan displays a small, poignant smile as he asks, “You don’t realize it, huh?”

Hutch blinks with incomprehension.

“Realize what?”

“Every time somebody mentions Starsky’s name or asks you about him, you … _freeze_. It’s kinda like … these walls of _ice_ come up, and suddenly nobody can _touch_ you.”

Hutch stares at Callahan, speechless. Did Callahan just coincidentally choose those words, or is he just that _astute?_

“I … ah, geez, I’m _sorry_ , Hutch. I’m being outta line here –“

Hutch rests one hand on Callahan’s shoulder, a benevolent hand.

“ _No_ , Joey. No, I’m … thank you for being honest with me. I’m glad you told me.”

“You _really_ didn’t realize it, huh?”

Hutch gives him a benign, tight-lipped smile, then says, “Pick you up same time tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Till I get my new car.”

“Then _you’ll_ be picking _me_ up, right?”

“Damn straight!” Callahan says jubilantly, and they chuckle and then bid each other good night.

Hutch ruminates on Callahan’s observations all the way back to his own apartment, driving leisurely on the 405, lulled into a torpor by the vivid lights from other vehicles on the freeway and suave jazz playing on the radio. That night, after his call to Stacey to chat with her, see how she’s doing and let her know how he’s doing, he has a slumber undisturbed by dreams of Starsky. It is the first in a long, long while.

In the morning, he has to tell himself that not dreaming about his former partner is a positive thing.

In the afternoon, as he’s ambling to the squad room with Callahan, bouncing ideas back and forth over their latest case, he has to tell himself that he isn’t dreaming when he runs into Starsky in the hallway.

Hutch has never seen Starsky in a black t-shirt and black jeans before. The t-shirt is close-fitting around Starsky’s stocky torso, a torso that’s all muscle with nary an ounce of fat, slimmer as if Starsky has lost some weight. The black jeans are even more snug – at least to Hutch’s eyes – than Starsky’s regular jeans, enwrapped around Starsky’s lean legs like a second skin. The Nike shoes that had replaced the blue Adidas shoes last year are no more, substituted by modish, dark brown lace-ups … but what has Hutch dead in his tracks is Starsky’s hair.

Starsky’s thick, dark curls are gone. Starsky has had them shorn at some point after their partner reassignment, and his hair is exactly like it was when he and Hutch were just beginning to work together as homicide detectives.

Like it was, when they’d been more than just best buddies.

When they were – yes, damnit – _lovers_.

And Starsky is gaping at him too, at his face, his hair, as if in immense disbelief at the changes he’s made to his own physical appearance. Without those unruly curls, Starsky’s blue eyes seem even larger, like pools of crystalline water in which Hutch had once found succor. But now, his imagination is wreaking havoc on his rationality and he can almost _swear_ that all the noise in the world is dwindling into a hush and there’s no one and nothing in the world except them, just the two of them, staring into each other’s eyes, and there is a light in Starsky’s eyes. A light he’d seen, once upon a time, whenever Starsky gave him those humongous smiles or those rib-crushing hugs. A radiating pinprick of light in a cosmos of lifeless darkness that’s saying to Hutch, _I’m sorry_.

A radiating light saying to Hutch, _please forgive me_.

A radiating light saying, _I miss you so much_.

Hutch swallows past a lump in his throat. No, it’s just his imagination messing with him. It _has_ to be.

“Detective Starsky?”

Callahan has stepped forward and is, interestingly, holding out his left hand towards Starsky. Hutch can pinpoint the precise moment that the fragile, transient link between him and Starsky severs, in the abrupt return of sound, in the flickering of Starsky’s eyelids, as if Starsky is awakening from a dream and is struggling to stay asleep, to stay in that dream.

“I’m Detective Joey Callahan. It’s an honor to meet you,” Callahan says, and Starsky is staring up at the taller, younger man now, blue eyes shuttered and face impassive. Without having to glance around at their surroundings, Hutch knows that they are being observed by other cops who are nearby and either walking past them or grabbing a drink at the water cooler.

It seems a century before Starsky raises his own left hand and shakes Callahan’s.

“You from New York too, huh?” Starsky says, one end of his lips arching upwards in that distinctive sideways smile, and Callahan grins and replies, “Yes, sir, I am. Lived and grew up on 76th Street, near Lenox Hill Hospital.”

“Call me Starsky, okay?”

Starsky tells Callahan that he’d lived on 84th Street, near the Mays, when he was a young ‘un,  and then the two New Yorkers are swapping short stories about life in Manhattan in different decades but all Hutch hears is the familiar, reviving burr of Starsky’s voice and all Hutch sees is the splendor of Starsky’s attractive, amiable face and gorgeous body, propped up against the wall with such graceful sinuousness. All he sees is the man he’d been willing to _die_ for, again and again, the man he’d loved with every cell in his being, once upon a time.

The man he … _still_ loves … and misse–

“ _STARSKY!_ ”

The startling roar from the end of the hallway causes Hutch to flinch from its ear-splitting volume and brashness. Callahan is alarmed as well, rendered wordless and grimacing. Starsky, on the other hand, merely drags one hand down his face and then turns around to face the source of the roar: A six-foot-tall man in a navy-colored Macintosh, grey round-neck shirt and black slacks, with slicked back, dark hair, an aquiline nose and thin lips. The man’s eyes are narrowed in impatience, lips contorted into a conceited sneer that Hutch somehow just _knows_ is always there on the man’s face.

So _this_ is D’Amato.

Hutch abhors the man on sight.

Starsky sighs, then turns back to face them. The weariness Hutch sees on Starsky’s face now seems bone-deep. The last time Hutch had seen anything close to it, it’d been during Starsky’s physical therapy sessions at the hospital, when his therapist – a white-haired, Greek woman called Eirene – had goaded him till he was flat out on the floor, sweating buckets and paler than the moon, unable to budge even a finger.

What the hell is this D’Amato guy _doing_ to Starsky?

“It was nice to meet ya, Joey,” Starsky says, his smile a parody of the one he’d shown Callahan minutes ago. The two men shake hands again, and then, Starsky is gazing at Hutch and across Hutch’s cerebral land, the snow starts to melt even as he is frenziedly mounding more snow around his fortress, his heart bolting in fright from the rays of heat incinerating their way through ice towards it.

Starsky is gazing at him, and it’s all Hutch can do to not seize Starsky by the hands, into his arms.

“Starsky,” he rasps in greeting, in farewell.

“Hutch,” Starsky says as raspingly, and there goes Hutch’s imagination again, telling him that it’s fondness he’s hearing in Starsky’s tone, fondness born from his absence. That Starsky doesn’t want to leave and wants to stay here. With him.

“STARSKY, _COME ON_ , ALREADY!”

D’Amato’s second bellow ensures that Hutch will never know for certain. With one last small, strained smile aimed at them, Starsky pivots around and strides away, a rigid figure comprised of lines of suppressed ire, hands fisted at his sides. It perturbs Hutch, very much so, to see Starsky like this. Starsky isn’t the kind of guy who copes with his fury bottled up inside him and given time to fester into something truly detrimental. He’d witnessed Starsky lose his temper many times, be it when the now incarcerated George Prudholm threatened to kill a busload of children unless Starsky resigned or when young, artistic Emily Harrison had lost her vision as a result of Starsky’s (justified) actions in a shootout with robbers who were her accomplices, or even when he’d feigned amnesia at the hospital to teach Starsky a lesson about being a maniacal driver and Starsky finally caught on. Every outburst had mitigated the pressure within Starsky, releasing all that exasperation so that Starsky could do his job and do it _well_.

If Starsky doesn’t have the necessary respite, and the fury grows and _grows_ –

_Hutchinson! You should be HAPPY about this! The jerk’s getting his just desserts for ditching you!_

Hutch doesn’t respond, and the spiteful voice scuttles away, defeated yet again.

There is a hand squeezing his shoulder, a gesture of forbearance, of support. Only when Starsky has turned the corner and disappeared from view does he glance at Callahan who is back to standing beside him. A small, accommodating smile is curving up Callahan’s lips. He smiles back, uncertain of what how it appears, but Callahan’s smile expands and then Callahan is asking him, “So, what was it you were saying about Timothy Jones’ priors?”, and in a snap, he’s readjusting to his Starsky-less life again. Like Starsky had never been there in the hallway, so gorgeous and sensual and everything Hutch wants. Like Starsky had never been there, gazing at him with those big, stunning blue eyes that seemed to be saying what he so acutely yearns to hear.

Like Starsky has ceased to exist, and isn’t haunting the corridors of his fortress again as he goes about his nightly routine of cooking and eating dinner – a simple Greek feta tortilla sandwich wrap – and a shower before vegetating in front of the television or reading a book. Stacey isn’t available tonight due to a late staff meeting at the bank, which means he has the entire night to himself, to do whatever he wants.

With an opened, unread book on his lap, he sits on the couch facing the switched off television. He stares at the phone on the side table, at its black buttons with its white numbers, and he’s thinking about dialing a very familiar number and saying to the other person on the line, _do you miss me as much as I miss you, Starsky, do you?_

When Hutch shuts off the lamp on the side table and trudges to his bedroom, the phone is still where it is. Its receiver never picked up, its buttons never pressed.

When Hutch crawls into bed naked, he spends hours staring at the curtained window, and he wonders why the snow and the ice of his lands of permafrost seem to burn him now, like fire. And as slumber prevails over him, as his eyes flutter shut, he also wonders why is it that Starsky had been in the hallway outside the Homicide department when the Narcotics department is two floors above.

 

& & & & & &

 

Two days later, alone at lunch break, Hutch goes to the Computer Center to pay a certain perky martial arts aficionado a visit of apology for his impoliteness during the Shania Thomas case.

“Oh, Hutch,” Minnie says, giving his hands on the reception counter a demonstrative squeeze. “It’s okay! You don’t have to apologize. I know how hard things must have been for you.”

Hutch requires no clarification of the ‘things’ to which Minnie is referring.

“No, it’s no excuse for my behavior then.”

“Hutch, really, I’m _good!_ ” She’s smiling one of those bubbly smiles at him, and it makes him smile too. “I already forgot about it!” She squints at him through her gigantic spectacles. “Have you been _brooding_ about it for the past two weeks?”

Hutch feels his cheeks go warm.

“Oh my god, you _so_ have. That’s _just_ like you!” Minnie exclaims cheerfully, and Hutch chuckles in accompaniment to her giggle. It amazes him sometimes that Minnie doesn’t have a boyfriend or isn’t married. She’s an absolute sweetheart, a quirky, adorable lady with a smile that’ll appease even the sternest of judges. Starsky had once seriously considered taking her out on an official date, but later changed his mind, claiming that her friendship was too important to jeopardize with sex. Bearing in mind how often Starsky had flirted with her in the past, Hutch had made a bet with himself that Starsky would change his mind again. Starsky hadn’t … and Hutch wonders what Minnie would think of that, if she ever learns about it.

“I’m glad _you’re_ still you.”

Hutch sends Minnie a sharp glance. Huh? What does she mean by _that?_

“You’re still you, but …” Minnie’s smile is now tinted with something akin to melancholy. “Starsky’s changed. A lot.”

Hutch blinks, then scrutinizes Minnie’s face. She’s looking to the side, downwards, as if she’s suddenly become anxious in his presence, and it hits him hard that she’s worried she’s upset him again by bringing up Starsky.

“Minnie, are you free for lunch?” he asks, smiling authentically, and Minnie looks at him, her brown eyes wide.

They gaze at each other for three seconds. Then, an even bigger smile emerges on Minnie’s face, and she replies, “ _Yes!_ ”

As they go down by elevator to the cafeteria in the basement, Minnie tells him that she has to eat in because she’s waiting for some urgent information for an Arson Squad case that the computer is processing. Hutch is fine with it. He’s been curious about the recently renovated cafeteria and its new menu anyway. It has supposedly improved a great deal.

“You haven’t eaten here in over a _year?_ ”

“Yeah. I can’t believe it either.”

He and Minnie have found a table in the corner of the now multihued, luminously lit cafeteria, next to a half-wall divider with planters on top. Other similar half-wall dividers are segmenting the cafeteria, providing some privacy to diners, and in the center of the large room is a ceiling-to-floor pole with hanging pots of iridescent anthurium, hibiscus and Kalanchoe flowers. All fake, of course, since the cafeteria is where it is, but Hutch is delighted with the sheer sight of greenery anywhere in the building. The place needs more flora, damnit. Preferably the _living_ type. The more of it, the better! And healthier!

“So, where’s Cutie Pie?”

Minnie’s eyes are twinkling.

Hutch smiles at her and says, “Joey’s having lunch with his father’s friend. A semi-retired captain from another precinct. The guy helped Joey get the job here.”

“Remind me to send him a thank you gift.”

Hutch laughs good-humoredly.

“Okay, I can’t believe I’m saying this either, but this is _yummy_.”

Hutch is speaking of his baked eggplant parmesan casserole stuffed with sliced eggplants, tomatoes, basil leaves, mozzarella and parmesan cheese. Minnie is dining on Moroccan lamb skewers with saffron rice, and it also looks scrumptious to Hutch.

“It’s _great_ , isn’t it? All the food’s cooked by a new chef now. He was hired earlier this year, straight out of the LA Trade-Technical College.”

Hutch chows down on another big mouthful of eggplant parmesan and says, “If the quality of the food stays this way, I hope he sticks around.”

They eat their meals in a sedate quietness for a couple of minutes. Minnie gives him a piece of her Moroccan lamb for him to try, for which he thanks her and finds it to have an impeccable blend of paprika, cumin, ginger, cinnamon and garlic. He might just order this the next time he dines here, vegetarian diet or not. He gives Minnie a piece of his eggplant parmesan casserole too, which she likes, particularly the blend of cheeses.

“You know, when I saw Starsky with that box that Friday night … I thought I was never going to see him again.”

Hutch gazes at her face. She’s looking down at her plate, cutting up the Moroccan lamb into more edible slices with her spoon and fork.

“Box?”

“Uh hm. He came back here quite late. After driving you home, I think. I saw him heading for the car park as I got out of the elevator.”

That Friday … Minnie’s talking about the last day he’d worked with and seen Starsky before Dobey had informed him about Starsky’s transfer request. The box must have been what Starsky had used to carry his stuff from his desk, after clearing it.

Hutch puts down his fork and sips his cup of hot coffee. Then he asks, “Did he see you?”

“Nope. I was heading for the car park, too, but I was behind him. I don’t think he would have noticed me even if I’d called out his name.”

“Why’s that?”

Minnie also sips her tea, then murmurs, “When he walked outside, I stayed at the exit, watching him. I just … I just knew he needed space. He was walking like he was tired to the bones, his shoulders all hunched, his head bowed. Like all that sexy confidence was just _gone_ , you know?” She sips her tea again, her eyes downcast. “I thought he’d quit and didn’t tell anybody about it.”

Hutch lowers his gaze to the table. Well, Starsky did quit, in a sense, and hadn’t told _him_ about it.

“He really didn’t tell you?”

Hutch glances at her and shakes his head.

“On Monday, everybody was talking about … you know.” At Hutch’s nod, she continues, “People were saying that _you_ were the one who requested for it.”

Shock must have engraved itself on his features, for Minnie says, “At first, I thought so too, when I remembered the way Starsky behaved that Friday night. But then you and Joey came to the Computer Center, and when I asked you about Starsky, I … I saw the _hurt_ in your eyes. And that’s when I knew it couldn’t have been you who requested it.”

Hutch lowers his gaze to the table a second time. Minnie’s hand glides over and covers his on the table surface.

“When Starsky got into his car, he sat in it for a long time. He was too far away for me to see his face clearly, but … I saw him cross his arms on the steering wheel and rest his head on them, like he was …” Minnie leans forward, the volume of her voice decreasing to a whisper. “Just between you and me? It was like he was _crying_.”

Head still swimming, Hutch doesn’t say anything. His inarticulateness prompts Minnie to say, “But this is _Starsky_ we’re talking about, right! Starsky’s one of the toughest guys I know. It was probably just my imagination.”

Minnie is right in that Starsky isn’t a guy who cries … but Hutch _has_ seen Starsky in tears before, and each time, he’d been impelled to tears himself by Starsky’s pain, by being helpless to do anything to take away that pain except embrace Starsky and rock them both. If Minnie hadn’t imagined it, if it _is_ true that she’d seen what she did …

_Oh, Starsky. My friend. My best friend. What has happened to us?_

“The other girls are scared of him now.”

Hutch simply stares at Minnie, confounded once more. What? Female officers of the Metro, _scared_ of funny, attractive, flirty _Starsky?_

“It’s true, Hutch. Ever since, well, you know, the other girls don’t dare to talk to him. He doesn’t talk to us or flirt with us like he used to anymore. He’s all business. Always has a fierce look, like he’s angry all the time. You know Marcia, in Accounting? She said that Starsky used to chat her up all the time, try to get her out for drinks. When Starsky showed up at Accounting last week, he didn’t even _smile_. And the craziest part? He actually gave her _all_ his receipts by date and on time, and not a single one was written on a napkin, and then he just walked off without a word. It freaked her out! She thought maybe she’d offended him in some way she didn’t know.”

Hutch scratches his right eyebrow with his thumbnail, frowning. That doesn’t sound _anything_ like the Starsky he knows. Starsky enjoys flirting with the ladies like he enjoys his burritos: All the time, every time.

“At least he still smiles at _me_ and talks a bit. But … I don’t know, Hutch, it’s like the light inside him just stopped _shining_. You know?”

Minnie’s last remark lopes around and round in his mind for days afterwards, even as he and Callahan investigate a case involving a spate of poisonings at a residential home. He is unable to envisage a Starsky without light, a Starsky without smiles and kind words. That’s not the Starsky he knows. That’s a … shadow of the Starsky he knows. A mere shadow.

A week after his lunch with Minnie, Hutch is alone and sauntering back to the squad room after lunch in the cafeteria. Callahan is spending his lunch break driving his second-hand, souped up, silver Chevelle Malibu around town for the third day, and as much as Hutch had relished the rides in Callahan’s newly purchased car, he’d declined a ride today to go for the cafeteria’s vegetarian special, an egg salad bento lunch consisting of egg salad on lettuce, diced celery, broccoli florets and cherry tomatoes, slices of pumpernickel bread with bittersweet chocolate chips and a salubrious serving of yoghurt-tossed banana slices and blueberries. He’d savored the meal so much that he went into the kitchens to personally commend the chef, a young Japanese-American, for the superb food.

Four steps away from the entrance of the squad room, he hears Simmons inside saying, “So, what do ya all think of Callahan?"

Hutch almost trips over his own feet in his rapidity to flatten himself against the wall next to the entrance and eavesdrop on the ensuing conversation.

“He’s a good guy. I like him,” says Andrew Chen, one of the younger detectives on the team, partnered with Bartholomew Diaz.

"Yeah, he does a good job. Decent guy."

Babcock, who sounds like he’s sitting farther away from Chen and the doors.

"Good guy _and_ a real tough guy. Don't let his young looks fool you. Callahan's got guts of steel. He’s seen at least _six_ dismembered corpses. Six! In just two years! _Shit_ , if it was _me_ and I had to go look at a dismembered corpse in the middle of the night with nothing but a flashlight and a _chopped off head_ rolled onto my shoe, I don’t think I could sleep for a _year!_ ”

That’s Diaz, with his gravelly voice that belies a five-foot-seven height and slim figure.

"Yeah, he's a good guy. We all like him, but ..."

That’s Phil Sweeney, one of the oldest detectives in the squad who’s seen many cops come and go in his decades of service, currently partnered with Douglas Schmidt who seems to be absent or is saying nothing.

“But what?” Simmons asks.

“Well … he’s not Starsky,” Diaz replies at length, and the room goes silent for a moment.

Then, Chen says, "What kinda guy _does_ that to his partner? Seriously, the hell Starsky was thinking, just suddenly transferring to Narco like that?"

"Yeah. Betcha a hundred bucks it wasn't a mutual decision to end the partnership,” Sweeney adds.

" _Yeah_ , did you guys see how _shocked_ Hutch looked that day? It was like he got hit by _napalm_ or something,” Babcock says.

“Hey, Diaz, you know the Narco guy who quit, right? Rivera?" Simmons asks.

"Yeah. Joe Rivera. We're not that close, but we know each other enough to meet up for drinks now and then. Really surprised me when I heard he'd resigned. Just a _week_ before he left the force, we were having a drink at El Cholo and he was going on and _on_ about finally getting promoted to lieutenant. Said his wife was real happy he was going to get a higher pay and all that."

The other detectives mutter amongst themselves.

Then Simmons says, "Something’s _off_ , man. I _still_ don't buy it that he quit for the sake of his family."

"Well, who knows. Sometimes lots of things can change in a single day,” Babcock says.

"Yeah,” Chen mumbles. “Like Starsky and Hutch no longer being partners."

The room goes silent again, for a longer period.

Simmons resumes the discussion with, "It doesn't make _sense_ , ya know? Starsky and Hutch, they were _tight_ , we all know that. You guys remember when Hutch was hounded by IA for his ex-wife's murder? Remember Starsky shouting at us, when we were talking about it and we were wondering whether Hutch _did_ kill her? Closer even than brothers, that's what he said to us. He and Hutch were really, really close, closer even than brothers, and he’d _die_ for Hutch, he said."

There is a thudding sound, as if Simmons has propped his feet on the table.

"Just makes what he did all the worse,” Chen mutters. Chen is plainly displeased with Starsky’s actions. Hutch has never realized how keenly the Chinese-American detective feels about the partnership he had with Starsky, until now.

"Like I said, it just doesn't make sense. Hutch's a _great_ guy. Great _partner_. Just look at how determined he was to bring down Gunther after Starsky got shot."

Murmurs of agreement waft to Hutch’s alert ears.

"And Hutch took _six months_ off, just to be with Starsky at the hospital,” Sweeney says.

"Six months of _unpaid_ leave,” Simmons says.

“My wife Imelda loves me,” Diaz jests, “and even _she_ doesn't love me that much."

The others chuckle with amusement. Even Hutch smiles, knowing how understated Diaz’s comment about his wife really is. He’s met Imelda a few times since he became a BCPD homicide detective. A person would have to be blind as a bat to not see the profound love Diaz and his wife have for each other, even after twenty years of marriage.

"With support like that,” Simmons says, “we all knew Starsky would work his _ass_ off to get back on the squad, and he _did_. You'd figure they'd be back stronger than ever after that, right?"

"I think they were doing alright when Starsky got back to work,” Babcock says.

Chen sighs, then says, “I dunno, Starsky did act like an asshole sometimes. Especially towards Hutch. Like, remember when they were working that double homicide case, the one where that engaged couple were shot dead in a hotel car park? Starsky was all up in Hutch’s face all the time, like Hutch was doing something to piss him off or like it was _Hutch’s_ fault they died. And Hutch did _nothing_ about it! Just let Starsky push him around.”

The legs of a chair scrape across the floor, as if someone is pushing their chair back.

"Chen, give the guy a break,” Diaz says with a staid tone. “Starsky got shot _three times_. He almost _died_. Hell, if what Hutch said is true, Starsky _did_ die. Think that allows him to get _frustrated_ now and then."

"Yeah, but after all Hutch's done for him? You don't act that way towards a good pal like that."

No one opposes Chen’s opinion.

"Hey, guys, we dunno the full story yet. Could be lotsa things we dunno that'll explain everything." Simmons hesitates, then says in a low voice, "Starsky told me Hutchinson's gonna get married soon. Hutch even said to me the other day that, hypothetically speaking, if he loved his wife and kids and had good reasons, he just _might_ quit."

The squad room erupts into a verbal melee of enthused comments and questions.

“Are you serious, Sims?”

“Hutchinson’s getting _married?!_ ”

“Well, shit, I didn’t see _that_ coming.”

“You know what, I bet she’s a real beauty.”

Hutch, still standing against the wall next to the squad room’s doors, stares unseeingly at the opposite wall. Starsky … told Simmons that he’s going to _get married soon?_ Why did Starsky _say_ that to Simmons, when _he_ has barely chatted with Stacey about marriage? And didn’t he tell Starsky that it’s just a _possibility?_

A possibility _isn’t_ reality.

Not yet, anyway.

"Yeah, Hutch's with a lady from ... which bank was it, again?" Sweeney asks, snapping his fingers.

"Bank of America,” Simmons replies.

"Yeah, yeah! Like Chen said, betcha she's _beautiful_."

"This is _Hutch_ we're talking about here, of _course_ the lady's hot stuff!" Babcock says vehemently, and everyone in the room sniggers.

Hutch is stuck between smirking and rolling his eyes. He ends up doing both at the same time. On one hand, it’s fascinating to hear his fellow detectives’ forthright opinions of him and Starsky, opinions he would never have heard otherwise. On the other hand, he had _not_ expected them to be so riveted by his love life.

_Gee, Hutchinson, just think of what they’ll say if they knew you used to fuck Starsky the Tough Guy in the ass till he screamed the house down._

Hutch grinds his teeth, and focuses on Diaz speaking.

"So is Hutch thinking about leaving Homicide too?"

"I dunno,” Simmons says. “Haven't heard any news like that. But Starsky said Hutch's pretty serious about his girlfriend. Like, ring-on-the-finger serious."

Silence, once more.

Then, Diaz says, "Maybe Starsky just got the ball rolling faster on ending the partnership, for Hutch's sake."

"So why didn't he talk to Hutch about it? The way Hutch looked that day, you _know_ he didn't."

"Who the hell knows, Phil. Maybe there was something going on between them that we don't know."

Hutch stiffens, his breath strangling in his throat. Shit, what’s Chen implying with _that?_

"You guys ever hear the rumors about them?" Chen adds, and Hutch begins to hear the thunder of his rushing blood through his ears.

"What, that they're ..."

Hutch doesn’t have to glance into the room to know that Sweeney is probably flapping his hand in an exaggerated, effeminate manner.

"Yeah."

" _C’m_ _on_ , they're not _gay!_ They’re like, pure _machismo_ on legs!” Simmons retorts, causing Hutch to choke down a hysterical laugh. “Have you _seen_ the women they've been with? Some of them were like goddamn _supermodels!_ And Hutch was _married!_ "

"I got a cousin who's gay,” Babcock says casually.

Hutch can practically _hear_ the creaking of necks as the other detectives turn their heads to gawk at Babcock.

"No kidding,” Simmons says as casually.

"No kidding. He lives in West Hollywood. Before he came out to everybody, he was married for eight years. Just saying, just because a guy's been with ladies and married them don't mean he's definitely straight."

“Babs, how come you never told _me_ about that –“

"Who _gives_ a damn whether Starsky and Hutch were more than pals or not! What matters is whether they do a _good_ job. And they _do!_ ” Hutch is surprised, pleasantly so, at the indignation in Diaz’s voice, at Diaz’s defense of him and Starsky. “Even if the _rumors_ were true, it's _their_ business, not ours! Would _you_ like _your_ love life to be public knowledge?"

More mumbling, unanimously concurring that the answer to that question is a resounding _no_.

Then Chen says, "Either way, Starsky's out of Homicide, whether Hutch likes it or not."

"But if Hutch gets married and settles down, there's no way he and Starsky could have gone on as they were anyway,” Sweeney says.

"You mean, wild and death-defying with a dose of _are you fucking nuts?_ ” Simmons says, and everyone laughs. Outside, Hutch can’t help smiling in wistfulness, for he wholly agrees with Simmons’ comical assessment of the partnership he had with Starsky. Yeah, he and Starsky had some outrageous, zany experiences together … and he treasures them all, more so than ever.

Diaz sums it up in just two sentences.

"All things have to end sometime. Even a partnership like theirs."

There is another letup in the discussion, in which Hutch hears the rustling of papers and someone sipping noisily from a cup and someone else clearing their throat. Then Sweeney asks, "Hey, Simmons, you're the pro-schmoozer, how come you haven't talked to Hutchinson about Starsky yet?"

"You kidding me? Ya think I haven't thought about it? Problem is, I dunno how to bring it up. Every time he even _hears_ Starsky's name, he turns into a _block of ice_."

Hutch’s blue eyes go stark. There it is again, somebody associating his behavior with _ice_ , with _coldness_.

"He _must_ be pissed off,” Chen says.

"I know _I_ would be, if Babs did that to me."

"Don't waste your breath, Sims. I hate your guts, remember?"

"Oh, _Babs_ , I love you too!" Simmons wails in a falsetto tone, and everyone laughs again and at that instant, Hutch pushes himself off the wall and through the doors of the squad room and yeah, there’s Sweeney, sitting closest to the entrance, and there’s Diaz and Chen sitting at their habitual spots and Simmons and Babcock sitting farther down the long desk. Schmidt must be out, since the guy’s usually attached at the hip to Sweeney. Hutch nearly bursts out laughing at everyone pretending so hard to act normal and not as if they’ve been blathering about him behind his back. _Ah_ , how can he not love these guys?

Hutch gets a pretty good idea of how much _they_ love _him_ when Simmons approaches him while he’s browsing through some folders in the squad room’s tall file cabinets, five days after the not-as-private-as-they-thought discussion about him. Simmons dives straight into things with him.

“So, how do ya feel about Callahan?”

Hutch glances at Simmons and with a small smile, he says, “Joey’s a good guy. Works real hard and knows his stuff. I’m glad to be working with him.”

Callahan has gone down to Records and Identification, which is why Hutch easily states his opinion of the younger detective. Dobey has gone out as well, which is why Simmons can afford to lounge around chatting.

Simmons nods and says, “That’s good, that’s good. The guys like him too.” Simmons glances at the trimmed fingernails of his left hand, then back at Hutch. “How about D’Amato? What do you think of _him?_ ”

Hutch spends a minute or two pulling up some files, flipping through them and putting them back in, his expression blank. Simmons doesn’t seem to mind waiting for a reply, and Hutch takes his time fabricating what he hopes will be a civil answer.

“I’ve yet to speak to him, and I’ve only seen him in person a few times so I don’t know what his character is like. But if he works well with Starsky, he’s probably an okay guy.”

After he pulls up the files he’s searching for, he shuts the file cabinet drawer and looks at Simmons. Simmons’ expression is deceptively indifferent.

“What do _you_ think of him?” Hutch asks.

Simmons examines his fingernails again and says dispassionately, “Hate him.”

From the desk, Babcock mutters, “He’s a fucking asshole.”

Farther down the desk, Chen says, “A fucking _racist_ asshole,” and Diaz, sitting opposite him, stretches an arm across the table and gives him a smack across the head.

While Simmons rolls his eyes, Hutch covers lips twitching with mirth with his fingers. Simmons waves a hand in the air, smiling in acknowledgement of Hutch knowing everyone else is listening in on them, then says to him, “Well, ya heard the crowd. Now tell us what you _really_ think of him.”

Hutch places his files on top of one cabinet and faces Simmons, propping himself against the cabinet.

“I’ve yet to speak to him, and I’ve only seen him in person a few times … but my gut instincts tell me he’s probably an arrogant asshole who won’t think twice about stepping on other people to get what he wants.”

Simmons’ smile is more wicked now, a smile a conspirator shows to another.

“I think the only guy who’ll disagree with you is D’Amato himself.”

Hutch snorts.

“You telling me _everyone_ thinks that of the guy?”

Hutch stands straighter at Simmons nodding in seriousness, the impish smile gone.

“At least the people I’ve spoken to. Lotsa birdies been chirping in my ear, Hutch, and none of it good things,” Simmons says, voice somber, and Hutch is now all ears, his full attention on the other man. “D’Amato is _not_ a nice guy.”

“Something tells me you’ve got proof to back it up.”

Simmons purses his lips, crosses his arms over his chest then murmurs, “You and Minnie up in the Computer Center are pretty close, right?”

Hutch nods, holding his breath, his mouth dry. Fuck, what has D’Amato done to _Minnie?_

“Couple of days ago, Babs and I were at the Computer Center getting some info for a case. While we were waiting, D’Amato showed up and demanded to talk to Minnie, and by demand, I mean he _yelled_ the place down. Banged his _fists_ on the counter and even _kicked_ it while he was at it, like he _owns_ the whole damn building. When Minnie came running out asking him what his problem was, he just _ripped_ right into her like she’d run overa dozen _kids_ or something. Screamed in her face and called her all kinds of names for _allegedly_ fucking something up with a computer print-out and _harming_ his investigation.”

Hutch is oblivious to his hands compressing into taut fists, or that his expression is now a fearsome one.

“What sort of _names?_ ” he grinds out.

Frowning, feeling mutual wrath, Simmons says, “There’s a reason Chen called him a racist asshole.”

The silence in the squad room is stifling. Hutch runs one hand down his face and paces the small area between the file cabinets and the desk, stabilizing his breaths, seeing red, blood red.

“And before you ask, you bet Babs and I had a few _words_ with him.” Simmons nods his head in Babcock’s direction, his frown intensifying. “There’s a reason Babs’ been favoring his shoulder.”

When Hutch glances at Babcock, he sees the seated detective shrug and stretch his left shoulder, gingerly.

He turns to Simmons and growls, “What happened to Minnie after that?”

“After Babs and I had our _disagreement_ with D’Amato, Minnie was gone. Didn’t know what happened or where she went until I saw my lady that night.” Simmons coughs and says quietly, “Uh, Sheila, she works in the Missing Persons Bureau. She and Minnie are friends. She told me that when she went to the Computer Center later in the day, the other officers there were talking about what happened and told her Minnie had taken the rest of the day off. She called Minnie up, and Minnie told her she was so upset she couldn’t work and went home and cried her eyes out.”

Hutch would have slammed a fist into one of the file cabinets if it isn’t for Callahan entering the squad room at that moment, two files in hand.

“Hutch, I got the records on James Crawford and Edmund … Vargas,” Callahan says, trailing off upon nearing him and Simmons at the file cabinets. Callahan glances first at his face, then Simmons’, then back at his, but doesn’t say anything else.

Hutch gives the younger detective a nod. It seems an adequate enough a reply, and Callahan goes to sit at the desk, glancing again at him. He turns back to Simmons, standing closer to the other man, calm enough to say coolly, “There’s no way Starsky knows about this. He would have torn the bastard to _shreds_ for treating Minnie that way.”

“And you would be right,” Simmons replies as coolly, still quietly. “Seems Starsky doesn’t have a clue about D’Amato’s two-faced bullshit. Whenever Starsky’s around, D’Amato tries to come across as a good cop who’s just _rough_ around the edges, a Mr. I Ain’t A Racist Hypocrite Asshole, so Starsky’s probably never seen D’Amato without the act.”

“Have you –“

“D’Amato sticks to Starsky like a _leech_. Believe me, I’ve tried to talk to Starsky, man, but D’Amato’s _always_ around. It’s like D’Amato won’t let other people _near_ him.”

Hutch rubs the skin above his upper lip, an old habit from his moustache days that hasn’t quite vanished yet.

“And speaking of Starsky, word is that he isn’t doing too good.”

Hutch looks sharply at Simmons, the groove between his eyebrows pronounced. Simmons’ gaze in return is steadfast, concerned.

“You were saying, that if Starsky works well with D’Amato then D’Amato’s an ‘okay guy’, right? Well, he isn’t, and they _aren’t_. Diaz heard from his pals in Narco that Starsky and D’Amato are always blowing up at each other anyway despite D’Amato’s act. Like mixing _fire_ with _gasoline_. They do their _jobs_ , but … all that _conflict_ all the time makes for a less than _pleasant_ work environment, ya know what I mean?”

“So the Narco guys aren’t so happy to have Starsky onboard now?”

“D’Amato’s been one of them for years. They’re not gonna go after their own, no matter how much they may hate him. Just think about Burke and Corman.” Simmons sighs, then mutters, “Look, Hutch, Starsky clashing with D’Amato isn’t the only reason they’re getting _cranky_ about Starsky.” Simmons scratches the side of his head, averting his eyes. “People are also saying that Starsky’s … that he’s, _uh_ … gone _dirty_.”

Hutch’s hand moves far swifter than his brain. In a flash, Simmons’ jacket lapel and dress shirt are scrunched in his fist and he’s hauling Simmons up and towards him, already in fight mode. He hears the shrill scrape of chair legs across the floor. Senses all eyes on him. Watching with bated breath.

“Hutch, _Hutch_ , I’m just the _messenger_ here, okay? I’m _not_ the enemy. I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”

Simmons has lifted his hands up, palms forward. A motion of peace.

A second ticks by, then another, and another, and Hutch releases his clutch on Simmons’ clothes. He smooths down the crumpled jacket and shirt, smiling apologetically, mumbling, “Sorry … sorry.”

Simmons pats him on the upper arm, eyes condoling.

“It’s okay. I get it. _We_ get it. We don’t believe that bullshit about Starsky either, none of us.” Simmons gesticulates with his right hand at Callahan who had swerved his chair to face them. “Hell, I bet _Joey_ here wouldn’t believe it either.”

“Believe what?”

Callahan’s poker face betrays nothing.

“That Starsky’s gone dirty,” Simmons says, and instantaneously, Callahan’s eyes narrow in condemnation of the allegation.

“See?” Simmons says, smiling.

“Who said that about Starsky?” Hutch asks, eyes blazing.

Simmons’ smile quickly fades to a solemn expression.

“I don’t know. I wish I knew, though. One minute everybody’s talking about Starsky transferring to Narco, the next minute everybody’s whispering that Starsky’s not as clean as he likes people to think he is. That maybe he’s decided the _other side_ is looking more _profitable_.”

“That’s _bullshit_. Starsky will _never_ do that.”

“Yeah, we know that ‘cause we know Starsky. But the Metro’s a _big_ place … and you and Starsky have never really been _chummy_ with IA, right?”

Hutch reads Simmons’ meaningful glance loud and clear: Starsky better watch his back and not do anything stupid, or Simonetti and his partner will be gunning for him again. Till he’s down for the count.

“Even if IA goes after him because of that bullshit, they won’t find anything because he is _not a_ dirty cop.”

_You THAT sure, huh, Hutchinson? You, the sorry sap who didn’t even see it coming, Starsky dumping you like trash._

Swallowing down what tastes like a ball of bile, he reiterates heatedly, “ _He’s not a dirty cop_.”

Simmons nods in agreement. Then he smacks Hutch on the upper arm, and says, “I find out the source, I’ll tell ya ASAP.”

“Thanks, Simmons,” Hutch murmurs gratefully.

“Hey, gotta look out for our own, right?”

As the last word rolls off Simmons’ lips, Dobey clomps in through the squad doors, expression stormy. With a speed a cheetah would be envious of, Simmons scurries to Callahan’s side and rests an arm across the younger man’s shoulders and says jauntily, “ _Heeey_ , Joey! Say, you, uh, you been baking any of those _coconut cookies_ again?"

Dobey sends Hutch an enquiring look as he opens his office’s door. Hutch simply shrugs and picks up his folders from the top of the file cabinet and ambles to his seat at the desk. No, sir, everything’s normal, sir, no rumors about Starsky being a dirty cop, no, not at all, _sir_.

"Sims, leave the guy alone. Do you know how _sad_ you are, asking the guy for _coconut cookies?_ "

"Says the guy who stuffed his face with a _dozen_ of them!"

“Are you calling me _fat?_ ”

“Babs, I have a personal record of your _swelling_ pants sizes, man, so don’t even bother trying to convince me you’re _slim_.”

“You have a _record_ of my _what?!_ ”

Smiling outwardly in amusement at yet another Simmons-Babcock squabble, Hutch sits down and scans through his files, counting his blessings for having co-workers – _friends_ – like Dobey and Callahan and Minnie and Simmons, Babcock, Diaz and the rest of the squad. Friends who are looking out for him … _and_ for Starsky, in spite of it all.

Starsky.

Still his friend. His best friend who he still dreams of in the night, in spite of it all.

That afternoon, he makes a brief trip to the Computer Center to look for Minnie, but discovers that she’s out and no one else there knows when she’ll be back. He leaves a message for her asking her to look him up if she returns or call his apartment after his shift is over. In the evening, during the ride home in Callahan’s Chevelle Malibu, Callahan only brings up the rumors about Starsky once, asking, “So what was Simmons talking about, Starsky ‘going dirty’?”

“He claims that that’s the rumor going around the Metro about Starsky. That Starsky’s possibly working for the mob now.”

Just speaking the words makes Hutch feel sick.

“ _Starsky?_ No way, man. I know I’ve only spoken to him once, but I _know_ he’s _not_ dirty.”

Hutch gives Callahan’s shoulder a squeeze of gratitude.

That night, around half past nine, Minnie calls him as he’s strumming his guitar on his couch and listening to Buddy Holly, alone. Minnie is her jovial self, right up until Hutch mentions the rumors about Starsky and by extension, D’Amato.

“He was … he was awful, Hutch.” Her voice is brittle, delicate. Heart-wrenching. “I felt lower than _dirt_ after he treated me like that. If it wasn’t for Simmons and his partner, everyone would have seen me lose it, including _him_ … and it wasn’t even my fault. It was an error by the DMV, not our computer system. But he didn’t care. He kept screaming at me, saying I’m not fit to be a – a _cop_ and he said he was going to _report_ me and he called me that – that _slur_ –“

Listening to Minnie sob once and then apologize for it, he consoles her with compassionate words and a promise to have lunch with her tomorrow, and lobs D’Amato straight to the #1 spot on his Scumbag List, sharing aforesaid spot with Gunther. If D’Amato so much as crosses his path from now on, he’s going to give the bastard a mighty taste of his own medicine. And if D’Amato so much as treats _Starsky_ the same way he did Minnie … there won’t be _anything_ left of the fucker to put six feet under after Hutch’s done with him.

As sworn, Hutch meets with Minnie for lunch, taking her out along with Callahan to the vegetarian restaurant on Willow Street. Callahan’s ebullient presence engenders an enormous smile on her face. Though Callahan hadn’t been so jolly – downright infuriated, actually – when Hutch had told him about Minnie’s lamentable experience with D’Amato earlier in the morning, Hutch is pleased that Callahan doesn’t mention it at all but gives her a hug and then plies her with jokes and humorous stories that make her smile more and laugh throughout their meal. Yeah, Callahan’s a good guy. Hutch is glad the rest of the squad have accepted him as one of their own.

When they return to the Metro and Hutch and Callahan are in the squad room examining old case files involving poisoning, Simmons approaches Hutch to inform him that Starsky and D’Amato have gone incognito for another mission. Nobody knows when they’ll be back.

“Really? That’s too bad. I was hoping D’Amato would meet my friend, Mr. Right Fist, and _his_ friend, Mr. Left Fist,” Hutch says, deadpan.

“What a coincidence,” Callahan says, eyes on his notepad as he jots down annotations, smirking. “I, too, happen to have such similarly named friends who’d like to meet D’Amato.”

Three days after the lunch with Minnie, Simmons approaches Hutch again, this time in the Metro’s cafeteria in the afternoon. The cafeteria is almost vacant. Perfect for a conversation about sensitive issues.

“Wish I had good news to tell ya, Hutch.”

Simmons is drinking a cup of black, unsweetened coffee while Hutch is munching on his second egg salad sandwich. He’d missed out on lunch earlier due to a drawn-out interrogation of a perp for their residential home poisoning case. The case had been rather vexing until they received an anonymous tip about a nurse who’d been recently fired from a hospital just five minutes’ drive away from the residential home. Once they’d checked her out and then apprehended her, it was a matter of getting her to talk. That had taken _hours_ of persistent grilling, largely on Hutch’s part whenever he played the good cop to Callahan’s bad cop. By the time she’d written and signed her confession and was taken away to be booked, both of them were fatigued and famished. Callahan had gobbled down his food – a giant bowl of Japanese soba noodles in soup – in record time to return to completing paperwork as soon as possible, and the utensils are still on the table, pushed to the side.

“Hit me with it anyway.”

“It isn’t pretty. The rumors about Starsky are even worse now. People are saying he deliberately transferred to Narco ‘cause he’s secretly working for an up-and-coming mob boss, a big player who’s looking to move in on Gunther’s territory and take over the major drug lines along the West Coast. Some guy called The Fin.”

Hutch snorts derisively.

“That’s _insane_.”

“You’re telling me. But that’s what I’m hearing, through Ballistics to the Gambling Squad to Vice. Whoever spread it around did one _hell_ of a job.”

“And _IA_ hasn’t checked it out and _debunked_ it yet?”

Simmons exhales audibly and sucks in his lips. Then, eyes averted, he mutters, “Simonetti’s sniffing around.”

The plastic casing of Hutch’s sandwich crunches in his hand.

“Yeah, Simonetti and his partner, Dryden. They haven’t made any moves yet, but they’ve been sniffing around and asking about Starsky’s, uh,  _extra-curricular activities_. If he has any.”

Hutch says nothing for a minute, prying open the compacted plastic casing so he can chuck the leftovers of his sandwich into it.

“Hutch –“

“Starsky isn’t a dirty cop. They can _sniff_ all they want, they won’t find anything.”

Simmons raises his hands and says, “Look, I _agree_ with you. I’ve worked with you and Starsky for years, remember? _Years_.”

Hutch sighs, then gives the other man a small smile and says, “Yeah. I know.”

“The thing about people is, people _can_ change. And when they do change, sometimes it can happen _just_ like that. You agree with that?”

Hutch gazes at Simmons’ face, silent, blue eyes unwavering.

“Shit.” Simmons runs the fingers of his right hand through his hair, agitatedly. “There’s no nice way to say this, man.” Simmons’ hand lands with a slap on the table top. “Starsky’s hitting the bottle. Unfortunately, this one’s no rumor.”

Hutch’s gaze turns frosty.

“Diaz ran into Starsky in the car park about nine days ago, late afternoon. He managed to talk a bit with Starsky and he … he smelled the booze on Starsky. The _hard_ stuff. And the smell was the kinda smell only somebody who’s been drinking a _lot_ has.”

“Starsky does _not_ drink on the job,” Hutch states calmly, too calmly, but Simmons isn’t daunted.

“Diaz isn’t the _lying_ type, Hutch, you know that. He wouldn’t bullshit about something as serious as _this_.”

“ _No_.” Hutch points a finger and jabs the air with it. “He does _not_ drink on the job. _Full stop_.”

“Hutch, that was the Starsky we _knew_. The Starsky before he _left_ Homicide.” Simmons glowers back at him, lips pressed into a line. “When was the last time you spoke to Starsky? The last time you knew what was _going on_ with him?”

Simmons’ questions strike him like whacks from a steel baton. He turns his head to the side, scowling, glaring at the floor.

“Ya think I _like_ saying stuff like this to you, Hutch?” Simmons’ tone is sympathetic now. “I don’t, man. But I’m thinking, after being best pals for at least _eight years_ , despite him transferring and partnering up with someone else, you still _care_ about him. Right?”

Hutch doesn’t answer. He hears Simmons sigh.

“Okay, it’s not my place to question you about whether you still keep in contact with him or not. I don’t blame ya if you aren’t. The other guys don’t, either.”

He rubs at his forehead with the pads of his fingers, eyes shut. He takes one deep breath. No, he shouldn’t be taking out his frustrations on Simmons. The man’s done a lot for him lately, without expecting anything in return, and even stood up to D’Amato when D’Amato was harassing Minnie and he didn’t have to make it his business.

“Apart from running into him once, I haven’t spoken to Starsky at all,” he says, opening his eyes to look at Simmons. Simmons is resting his forearms on the table, gazing at him with genial eyes. “And he’s never contacted me.”

“So it definitely _wasn’t_ you who requested for the partner reassignment, right?”

“Right.”

Simmons presses his lips together tightly again.

“Damn.”

Hutch looks sharply at him.

“See, if it _was_ you who wanted the partnership to end, then Starsky moving to Narco was a _chance_ thing. Since he was the one who wanted out, you just _know_ Simonetti’s gonna see that as a premeditated move.” Simmons takes a sip of his coffee, then says, “Starsky wasn’t the only guy Diaz’s run into lately. He saw Rivera alone at El Cholo when he took his wife and kids there for dinner two nights ago. Rivera was friendly and all … until Diaz asked him about his resignation. Diaz said that Rivera went paler than a ghost, like he was gonna keel over from _fright_.”

Hutch leans forward on the table, also resting his forearms on its surface.

“Didn’t you say Rivera claimed he’d resigned so he could spend time with his wife and children? Despite an upcoming promotion to lieutenant?”

“Exactly. So why would the guy lose his shit just being _asked_ about the resignation, right? When Diaz tried to push the issue, Rivera just kept telling him that same old line about his family, like a damn _parrot_. Wouldn’t say anything more about it, and left as soon as Diaz went back to his table.” Simmons crooks one eyebrow up. “So _now_ do ya think it’s fishy, too?”

Hutch presses one fist against his lips, his brows creased in cogitation.

“So Rivera’s resignation _isn’t_ as voluntary as it seems.”

“Nope. Not if his reaction to Diaz was real.” Simmons takes another sip of his coffee. “And about Rivera’s partnership with D’Amato, it turns out Rivera was the Mr. Nice Guy to D’Amato’s Mr. Racist Hypocrite Asshole. Rivera was the PR extraordinaire of the duo who kept D’Amato’s batshit behavior behind the scenes so D’Amato could keep playing hardball, ya catch my drift?”

“D’Amato pushed Rivera around and got away with lots of crap because the guy would always clean up after him.”

“Bingo. He’s probably pulled the same shit he did on Minnie on _lotsa_ other people. We just don’t know about it.”

“But Starsky’s not the sort of guy who can be pushed around, if ever.”

“Yep. Hence the constant conflict. Oh, and there’s something else. Sweeney’s got a pal in Robbery/Burglary, a young detective who’s been hoping to transfer to Narco for some time. Ya know how Narco’s been on the lookout for _reliable_ members since the, uh, _situation_ with Burke and Corman, right? So this friend of Sweeney’s finally decided to go for it about three months ago and sent in his request for a transfer to Narco. Decent record, decent guy with recommendations, figured he would get it easy.”

Simmons’ voice lowers to a cautious murmur.

“So get this: Just _days_ after he submitted his request, there he was, having a nice meal with his wifey and baby girl at home when a buncha _goons_ in _ski masks_ paid him a visit. Crashed through the door and smacked him around and told him that if he didn’t _withdraw_ his request ASAP, they were gonna make him pay by killing his whole family before his eyes. And if he told any of his cop pals, or _anyone_ else, about their visit, they’d make _good_ on their threat. He withdrew the request the next day.”

Hutch stares at the other man, appalled.

“The only reason Sweeney even found out about it was because he and the guy had drinks at the guy’s house and his pal’s tongue got _loosened_ by all the alcohol.”

“Then Sweeney told you.”

Simmons nods.

“As Sweeney put it, his pal had told lotsa people about his transfer request so it wasn’t some secret or anything. Word must have spread onto the streets and gotten into the ear of whoever those goons work for.”

“And those goons might have also paid visits to other cops who submitted transfer request to Narco at the time, if there were any others.”

“Yeah. But even if we knew who they are, what sane guy would blab when _professional_ goons are watching his family and itching to _kill_ them?” Simmons shakes his head, then says, “Sweeney thinks it’s no coincidence his pal was threatened to stay away from Narco around the same time Rivera quit. _I_ think Rivera got a visit from those goons too.”

Hutch rubs the skin above his upper lip, his frown deepening.

“Three months ago … that was around the time Starsky submitted his request for a transfer.”

“Hutch, do ya believe in coincidences?”

There is a glint in Simmons’ eyes, a glint reflecting in Hutch’s own eyes.

“I think it’s time I started looking up old friends in the know,” Hutch says, thinking of a certain wily, well-groomed owner of an all-night bar and bistro, and Simmons shows him an eloquent smirk.

“And I’ll continue to do the same.”

As Simmons begins to stand up, Hutch murmurs, loud enough only for Simmons to hear, “Danny, be careful, okay?”

Simmons nods and then winks at him, straight-faced.

“Don’t worry. They don’t call me the Legendary _Schmoozer_ of the Metro for nothing.”

They share a surreptitious smile, but Hutch’s smile wanes as soon as Simmons is out of sight, drowned by apprehension. The apprehension lingers in him all the way till evening, while Callahan is driving them to a pizzeria called Casa Bianca. Callahan had mentioned he was hankering for some good pizza since moving from New York, and before Hutch had even finished saying, “Hey, I think there’s a place in Eagle Rock that serves good Italian-style pizza,” Callahan had bundled them into his Chevelle Malibu and stomped the accelerator (but never over the speed limit, of course).

“You want to talk about it?” Hutch glances at Callahan and the younger man adds, “Whatever it is that’s making you look like you want to rip apart the whole city looking for something. Or someone.”

Hutch flushes, unsure of how to reply to that.

“Simmons talked to you again about Starsky, right?”

Callahan is smiling, a perceptive smile, and Hutch unwinds and says, “Yeah. None of it good.”

He tells Callahan everything Simmons had imparted to him in a subdued voice. By the end of his soliloquy, Callahan’s expression is pensive.

“Somebody wanted Starsky to get into Narco _real_ bad, Hutch.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t think it’s _true_ , do you? That Starsky’s working for this … what’s his nickname again, _The Fin?_ ”

Hutch stares out the passenger window, chewing on his lower lip.

“My head tells me that the chances of Rivera’s resignation and those goons threatening other cops away from Narco being pure coincidence are … extremely low.”

“What do your _instincts_ tell you?”

The edgy silence in the car endures for several minutes.

Then, Hutch says distinctly, “Starsky would rather throw himself into the ocean with cement blocks around his feet than work for the mob and let mob goons threaten fellow cops.”

“Then that’s what we’ll work with.”

Hutch turns his head away from the window to gaze at Callahan. Callahan’s expression has transformed into one of resolve.

“Okay. Let’s treat this like a case,” Hutch says, smiling softly.

Callahan also smiles, then says, “Since Starsky’s undercover and unavailable for questioning until further notice, all we got right now is Simmons’ information and your extensive knowledge of Starsky. So, going with the belief that Starsky’s clean and that the rumors of him going dirty are just bullshit, who stands to gain the most from Starsky falling from grace?”

“You want the list in alphabetical order?”

Callahan snorts and replies, “You two made _that_ many enemies?”

“Enough that I can name at least a dozen people off the top of my head.”

“Okay, so we gotta shrink the suspect list. Who stands to gain the most from Starsky falling from grace _now?_ ”

Hutch leans his head against the headrest and stares up at the black headliner above.

“There’s only one name that comes to mind.”

“Gunther?”

Hutch closes his eyes.

“Yeah. Except he’s rotting in jail, and he’s _staying_ there for life. If he’s still seeking revenge, _I_ should be the target, not Starsky. _I_ was the one who arrested him and put him there.”

“If anything happens to you – or Starsky, again – everyone will be pointing fingers at Gunther. He may be a sociopathic criminal with no conscience … but I don’t think he’s stupid.”

Recalling the enmity in Gunther’s near-colorless eyes, as the former head of the fourth largest holding company in the country stared at him in the court room during the nationally-publicized trial, Hutch senses a shiver zigzagging down his spine.

“He’ll hate my guts till the day he dies, but no, I don’t think he’s that stupid. And he’s lost his power. His whole empire.”

“Hence all the other mob bosses vying for his throne and territory.”

“Yeah. They’re all coming out of the woodworks now, including this Fin guy, whoever he is.”

“The Organized Crime squad is gonna have their hands full for a while, huh?” Callahan pauses, then says, “You think we should ask them about The Fin? If there’s somebody at the Metro who’d know about him, it’d be them.”

“I’m thinking of asking someone else who’s … closer to the streets. Someone I implicitly trust.”

“A Mr. Huggy Bear of The Pits on 1348 E 6th Street?”

Hutch sends the younger detective a glance of surprise. Callahan is smiling again.

“I’ve done my homework,” Callahan says, smile broadening, and Hutch also smiles and then says, “Yeah. Huggy’s a good guy. A good friend. He’s been an invaluable source of information for as long as I can remember.”

_A good friend you haven’t seen or spoken to for almost two months, Blondie. What’s up with that?_

Before Hutch can conceive a reply to that, Callahan says, “Hutch, Simmons said he always heard the rumors throughout the _Metro_ , right? What if it’s another _cop_ who started them, and has been encouraging them to spread?”

Hutch gazes out the windshield, frowning in contemplation.

“D’Amato?” he says, and Callahan replies, “I thought that, but I’m not too sure he’d gain anything from badmouthing Starsky. Starsky’s his partner now, so badmouthing Starsky by making people think he’s dirty is gonna look bad on _him_ too. Sure, D’Amato’s a Grade-A asshole and I can see him being _childish_ enough to lash out like that, but I bet his _ego’s_ the size of the Pacific and won’t stand for any bad talk about _him_ either. Starsky’s been his partner for, what, just _two months?_ What are people gonna think if he talks shit about Starsky? Especially when it’s an accusation of _Starsky_ working for the _mob?_ IA is sure to put him under a microscope with Starsky and demand to know where he’d gotten such info from and why he’s spreading it around instead of reporting it directly to IA.”

“And Rivera quitting meant D’Amato lost a partner who was willing to put up with and even clean up his bullshit for _years_.”

“Yeah. I’m thinking D’Amato is probably _pissed_ as hell that Rivera left him without a scapegoat. If he’s gonna badmouth somebody, it’d be _Rivera_ , not Starsky.”

The conversation lulls as Callahan maneuvers the car through Exit 139A out of the Golden State Freeway and onto the Glendale Freeway, as per Hutch’s directions. Hutch returns to staring out the passenger window, his blue eyes seeing not other vehicles speeding alongside the Chevelle Malibu but the interiors of a bedroom in a canal cottage, a diffusely lit room with its king-size bed and Starsky sprawled on its light blue covers.

Starsky, nude in all his glory, reaching out with his left hand and smiling that humongous, beautiful smile at him, as if they had never parted. As if all of it had meant everything to Starsky too, like it did to him.

Like it still does.

_I miss you. Miss you so much._

Hutch feels the cotton twill of his jeans beneath his clenched hands and the firmness of the leather seat under him and against his back, but inside, it is cold and wintry and high up in a fortress of ice, his heart aches for warmth from a sun it hasn’t seen for an eternity. It doesn’t like the cold anymore. The cold doesn’t make it strong anymore.

“Is there anyone else at the Metro who might have a grudge against Starsky?”

Hutch opens eyes he doesn’t realize he’d shut. The world before them is blurry.

“The first person Starsky and I arrested as plainclothes cops was a nineteen-year-old guy called Gary Vincent Prudholm, for pushing drugs at McKinley High School. He was killed in a knife fight while in city jail, and his father, George Prudholm, blamed Starsky and I for his death.”

“Wait a minute … this Prudholm was the guy who killed two cops and then ended up in a mental institution, right?”

“Yes. Prudholm promised he wouldn’t stop killing cops until Starsky resigned for shooting sixteen-year-old Lonnie Craig during a liquor store robbery. The two cops were Officers Dan Tinker and Jack Forrest. Tinker was shot by Prudholm. Forrest was killed by a bomb in a gas station’s bathroom. And yeah, they had friends who were _not_ happy with Starsky.”

“Are these friends of theirs still on the force?”

“I don’t know. I never got their names, so I don’t even know where to start asking without stirring up bad memories better left undisturbed. The last thing Starsky needs now is for people to remember the Lonnie Craig shooting.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Still … that was years ago. Almost five years.”

“And for them to talk shit about Starsky now, after what happened to Starsky? Talk about carrying an old grudge, huh?”

“Yeah … Well, there’s Simonetti and Dryden, but it’s been two years since Starsky and I have interacted with them in any way. And as much as it pains me to say it, although Simonetti ended up taking it a _little_ too personally, they were just doing their jobs as IA cops while investigating me for my ex-wife’s murder. It’s one thing to investigate another cop for homicide, it’s something else to spread unfounded rumors about a fellow cop working for the mob.”

“A fellow cop who returned to active duty after recovering from multiple gunshot wounds only, what, _eight months_ ago?”

“Yeah.”

The conversation lapses into silence a second time, until they’re exiting Glendale Freeway and the car is heading for Colorado Boulevard towards Broadway.

“It’s not looking good for Starsky, Hutch.”

Hutch says nothing and waits for Callahan to explicate.

“Like you said, it’s too much of a coincidence that Rivera would quit and Sweeney’s pal in Robbery/Burglary would get threatened by goons to stay away from Narco around the same time Starsky transferred to Narco. Now _we_ know Starsky isn’t the kinda guy to go dirty, but Simonetti and the rest of IA aren’t going to see it that way. The way it’ll look to them, especially if Simonetti is gunning to take down Starsky this time, is that Starsky’s gone on The Fin’s payroll and moved to Narco as his mole. So in order to make sure Starsky got a post ready for him, The Fin sent his goons to smack Rivera around and get him to quit. Then he sent his goons after anyone looking to transfer to Narco around the same time as Starsky. At least, until Starsky got the job.

“If Simmons managed to find out about The Fin and the death threats, no doubt IA will too, sooner or later, and _they_ can dig as deep as they want into the paperwork and get the names of the cops who’d requested to transfer to Narco around the same time. Then it’s just a matter of IA interviewing them and linking the death threats with Starsky’s transfer, _if_ they talk. And if Simmons’ intel is right on Rivera, it must have been a piece of cake for the goons to get Rivera to resign. Him being a pushover, pushed around by D’Amato for years on end, it’s probably why The Fin targeted him.”

Hutch considers what Callahan said, then replies, “But that would also imply that The Fin’s been keeping an eye on Narco for some time.”

“I’ll bet my paycheck on that, if he’s really that big a player and he really intends to take Gunther’s place and control the drug lines.”

“So if he is … does that mean he already _has_ Metro cops on his payroll before Starsky transferred?”

Hutch’s question leaves them both disconcerted.

“Geez, this is like jumping outta the pan and straight into the fire.”

“Gunther had dirty cops on his payroll too. One of them was responsible for reporting to him about my daily routine at the Metro. Mine and Starsky’s. That’s how those … assassins knew exactly where we’d be that day and when we’d leave the building to go to the car park.”

Callahan shakes his head, an introspective frown etched on his handsome face.

“This is what I don’t get about all this ... Starsky got shot by assassins sent by one of the most powerful mobsters in the country, and then he goes and becomes a _lackey_ for another big shot mobster? The only reason I can think of that could possibly force Starsky into doing something like that – _if_ he’s gone dirty – is if he’s being, I don’t know, _blackmailed_ or something.”

The word sends another shiver zigzagging down Hutch’s spine. Starsky, blackmailed … for what? What could anyone, much less an up-and-coming mob boss like The Fin who Hutch had not heard of till today, have on Starsky that could coerce Starsky into going dirty?

The tantalizing image of Starsky naked on his bed arises once more, but this time, all Hutch feels is intense dread. His fingernails burrow into his palms. Can it be, that someone knows about that _one month?_ That someone has some sort of _evidence_ of their sexual relationship and is using it to blackmail Starsky? Someone like The –

_That was five years ago, Blondie. We were real careful. Always closed the curtains and locked the doors and windows. Why’d you think I always insisted on being at the cottage? It was YOUR home, your domain. I felt safe there. I knew you would protect me. And you did. Every time._

The world is blurry again, and Hutch blinks hard.

_Except that one time, Starsk. That one time, when I failed and you died … and then came back to life. For me._

The luminosity from the headlights and taillights of other vehicles sear his eyes.

“It’s kinda ironic, that the death threats are _helping_ us, in a way.”

Hutch glances wordlessly at Callahan.

“The longer it takes for Simonetti and Dryden to look up  the cops those goons harassed and get information out of them, the more time it buys until Starsky tells us his side of the story.”

A entire minute passes before Hutch mutters, “That’s if Starsky even _wants_ to talk to me.”

They’re on Colorado Boulevard now, passing small apartment buildings and motels. The pizzeria’s neon blue-and-pink sign stating ‘Pizza Pie’ is ginormous, conspicuous even blocks away, and Callahan says nothing in reply to him as he searches for a parking space. It is only when Callahan has parked the car in a spot less than a block away and turned off the ignition that the younger man says, “I think he does … but maybe he just doesn’t know how.”

Hutch’s eyes widen at the déjà vu he senses upon hearing that. He’s heard that before, not phrased precisely the same way but –

_He’s hurting, Ken. Maybe he just doesn’t know how to tell you that he’s hurting inside._

Hutch can feel Callahan’s gaze on his face. He looks out the windshield, thinking about a lovely, smart woman with thick, dark curls and big blue eyes, thinking about how long it’s been since the last time he’d seen her and how many dates he’s had to cancel on her because of work.

_Oh no, Hutchinson, don’t lie to yourself now. You KNOW why you’ve been avoiding her. This is one grave you dug for yourself._

“I don’t know,” Hutch says, in reply to both Callahan and that goddamn voice in his head that just has to be _right_. “I don’t know.”

Callahan squeezes his shoulder.

"We'll get to the bottom of all this, Hutch.” Hutch hears the clack of the driver’s door opening. “C’mon, let’s go fill our bellies with some good pizza.”

For the next few days, Hutch’s mind seems as foggy with smog as the city itself. The days are spent catching up on tons of paperwork and thinking about Starsky who is out there on the streets, without him. Thinking about Stacey, about why it’s so difficult lately to picture her face or her voice or the way she moves when he can evoke memories of Starsky by category _and_ keyword with each and every heartbeat. Memories of Starsky’s smiles. Of Starsky’s various laughs, of the way his eyes crinkle at the sides and the way the sun seems to glow from within him whenever he’s joyful. The softness of his lips. The copiousness of his dark, curly hair and the lushness of those long eyelashes. The smoothness of the skin of his long neck, undulating as Hutch kisses and nibbles it, and the low groans as Hutch licks a path down his broad, hairy chest and the higher-pitched moans as Hutch licks and sucks lower, lower down.

Starsky, suffusing his every thought, even while he is on a long overdue date with Stacey and they’re dining at a new vegetarian-friendly restaurant in town that she’s wanted to check out for quite some time. He doesn’t remember what they’ve been chatting about or what he’s ordered for dinner and every time he looks at her, he sees someone else, someone who’s out there on the streets, without him. Someone who should be here at his side, instead, suffusing the snow-laden landscape of his mind with life-giving sunshine.

Stacey has obviously noticed his unintentional detachment, and indicates her disgruntlement by ending their date straightaway after dinner. She requests him to drive her home although they’d planned to go to the cinema after dinner to see the latest Robert De Niro film, Raging Bull, and he does so without complaint. Her good night peck on his lips is feeble, forgettable. The weightiness on his heart as he watches her walk to the front door of her house and unlock it and enter it has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that she doesn’t glance back at him once.

Back at his apartment, he brews himself a hot cup of coffee and sits on his couch in his robe, sipping the coffee and thinking, thinking, for a long time. He ignores the phone on the side table. There’s no point in staring at it tonight, as the one person he so desires to call won’t be there to answer. After an indolent shower, he slinks into bed and attempts to read Carl Sagan’s Cosmos, a book he’d bought months ago. He doesn’t remember a single word from pages his eyes peruse for the next half hour.

When Hutch switches off the bedside lamp and lies down on the bed, he falls asleep within minutes, swathed from nose to toes in a luridly colorful Falsa blanket from Mexico that still smells a bit like Starsky after a cold shower.

 

& & & & & &

 

Hutch’s first meeting with Huggy at The Pits, since the dinner with Starsky and Stacey, does not go well.

“Well, well, if it isn’t _Lazarus_ , back from the _dead_.”

Huggy’s big brown eyes, typically welcoming, are circumspect. Skeptical. Huggy’s attire today is conservative and low-key: A denim jacket, a white t-shirt highlighted by a red scarf around the neck, jeans and a beige hex hat.

“Hey, Huggy,” Hutch says, hoping his smile appears as amiable as he wishes it to be. He seats himself at one of the few available tables left during the hectic lunch hour as Huggy moseys up to it.

Huggy wastes no time in declaring his mind.

“Is my _lowly_ establishment too _square_ for you now?”

Hutch has to grit his teeth to hinder himself from wincing. Yeah, Huggy’s noticed his prolonged absence from the bar and bistro, alright.

“Huggy, it’s nothing like that.” He shrugs, his smile changing into a contrite one. “Things at work have just been ... a little _complicated_ lately."

“So I heard,” Huggy replies, and Huggy’s tone is the chilliest Hutch has heard in ages. A tone that speaks volumes of how Huggy feels about being left out of _that_ loop.

Hutch is unable to continue looking Huggy in the eye. He lowers his gaze to the small, unlit candle vase on the table, then murmurs, “Has he been here?”

He is flabbergasted by the hostility in Huggy’s voice as Huggy replies quietly, “And why would you _care_ about _that?_ ”

“Huggy, I –“

“Burger and fries, as usual?”

“ _Huggy_ –“

Hutch curses inwardly as Huggy strides away without glancing back, then leans his elbows on the table top and cups the side of his face with his hands, propping his chin on his palms. He sighs once, heavily. A standoffish Huggy is an unfamiliar Huggy to him … but a standoffish, _protective_ Huggy is one he can still comprehend, to some extent. If he’s reading Huggy’s comment right, then Starsky _has_ been here since the dinner with Stacey … and if he’s reading Huggy’s antagonistic mood right, Huggy must have learned something or another from Starsky that’s incensing Huggy and making the guy give him the cold shoulder. But what is it? And shouldn’t Huggy be fuming at _Starsky_ , not him,for ending the partnership? Or is Huggy really that offended that he hasn’t come around in months?

He stares at the candle vase. It’s about the only thing in the whole damn place that’s safe to look at, that doesn’t remind him of the man who was once his partner, in more ways than one. It’s _safe_ , unlike the bar with its black-and-white Barbara Streisand photograph hanging behind it that Starsky adores, the bar where they had chosen each other over Kira and walked out with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Safe, unlike the jukebox in the corner, upon which Starsky would lean on and stretch that gorgeous body like a big cat while idly picking his favorite Fats Domino songs.

Safe and merciful, unlike the pool table in the center of the room, the very pool table where he and Starsky had played so many games and made so many bets. Where Starsky would play little tricks on him to sabotage his shot. Smile at him and laugh with merriment, even when he won and Starsky didn’t. Touch him, on his arm or his back or his belly, and sometimes even hug him, just for the sake of hugging him.

Starsky is everywhere around him, and it’s all Hutch can do to not fragment into a million, irreparable pieces.

A plate bearing a bulky burger and a generous helping of fries materializes before his eyes on the table. He glances up and sees Huggy setting down a mug of what smells like piping hot coffee and a fork and knife next to the plate. Although his usual order is a burger and fries with beer, he’s glad for the coffee. It’ll repel the pall of winter. The winter _outside_ , that is.

The winter inside him will always be there as long as his sun, with its rejuvenating warmth and caresses and hugs and _humongous_ smiles, is gone.

“Thanks, Huggy.”

Huggy responds with a long, reflective look and then a nod. The aloofness in Huggy’s expression and body language has decreased, as if Huggy has amended his opinion about him – or something regarding him, anyway – and isn’t so certain whether Hutch deserves the cold shoulder or not anymore.

Recognizing the futility of talking with Huggy for now, Hutch says nothing else and delves into his meal. When he bites into the burger, he nearly gags in amazement at the utter lack of meat in it. It’s a vegetarian burger of grilled, juicy Portobello mushrooms paired with tahini paste, sliced tomatoes, baby spinach and mashed avocado, and it’s _heavenly_. The roasted fries are also savory, succulent and sprinkled with caraway seeds, paprika and stock powder. Before he knows it, his plate is empty and spotless and he is sighing in repletion between sips of his still-hot coffee, mellowed by Huggy’s endeavor to serve a vegetarian meal even though the man’s upset with him.

He asks Anita for the bill and pays it rather than put the meal on his tab. He smiles at the nonplussed expression on her face but doesn’t enlighten her about the payment. If there’s one thing that’ll grab Huggy’s attention, it’s him paying his bill upfront for once.

Later that evening after he and Callahan have clocked out, he returns alone to The Pits in his LTD for dinner. Callahan had declined dinner with him because of a prearranged date, something Hutch teased Callahan about all afternoon as the younger detective wouldn’t relinquish any details whatsoever about his date and simply smiled enigmatically. Hutch had presumed Minnie to be the date, except when he and Callahan passed her in the hallway as they were leaving the Metro and chatted with her, there had been no romantic overtures between her and Callahan and she’d mentioned she’ll be working late tonight. So, not Minnie. Perhaps not even a _woman_ , seeing how reticent Callahan was about it … but Hutch draws the line at more speculation than that.

Callahan has the right to see whoever he wants, be it woman or man, society’s bigotry be damned.

The Pits is bustling tonight, crowded with festive folks who are having dinner or milling in small groups along the bar and around the pool table, beer or cue sticks in hand. Hutch finds a sequestered spot at the end of the bar farthest from the entrance and sits on a stool there. He fiddles with the collar of his dark aqua green zip-up turtleneck while he waits to be served, and graciously turns down the advances of two young, good-looking women, both brunette and doe-eyed. They’re disappointed that he won’t dine with them but are apparently not giving up so easily either, for they give him their phone numbers scribbled onto a paper napkin along with their names. This he accepts graciously too, wishing them an enjoyable dinner with a mannerly smile.

“How about a beer and tonight’s special?”

A swath of cooled dampness presses against his hand resting on the counter top. He pivots around on his seat to see Huggy standing behind the bar, gazing at him with somewhat amused eyes. Huggy has dispensed a brimming mug of beer for him.

He takes it with both hands and says, “Thanks, Huggy, that’ll be great.”

Huggy goes off to take more orders from other patrons, leaving Hutch to drink in peace. He doesn’t look once at the paper napkin with its scrawled numbers and names. It is already sopping wet from the condensation from his mug. Illegible. He stares at the photograph of Barbara Streisand, at her profuse curls and big, alluring eyes and prominent nose, at her individualistic beauty. She reminds him a bit of Starsky, Starsky and those thick, dark curls in which he’d nuzzle his nose to smell their fresh scent, those big blue eyes that used to gaze at him with all the love in the world, and that nose, that nose he’d tap affectionately and kiss, just to hear that innocent giggle that he’s sure only he has ever heard.

Starsky.

His friend, his best friend. His everything.

"It just don't look right."

Huggy is back with tonight’s special, and has set it down on the counter top in front of Hutch along with a spoon and fork. The aroma hits Hutch first. It’s an aroma he’s gotten a whiff of before, of garlic, onions, sun-dried tomatoes and white wine.

"What?" he mumbles, staring down at the plate of linguine tossed with white wine-flavored clams. Starsky had ordered this dish that night. The dish Starsky couldn’t finish eating because he hadn’t felt too good. Or so the guy claimed.

“It just don’t look right,” Huggy restates, shaking his head slowly, “when the two of you ain't together."

For a second, Hutch considers feigning ignorance and saying, _oh, yeah, Stacey’s not with me tonight because she’s been so busy at work nowadays and not because she’s unhappy with me now_. But he doesn’t. He can’t, not with Starsky imbuing everything around him. Imbuing _him_.

He doesn’t glance up at Huggy and promptly wolfs down his dinner, forking the pasta directly into his mouth rather than twirl it around the spines of his fork. If Huggy had cooked this particular plate of linguine and clams as well, then Starsky _must_ have been ill that night to not enjoy the tasty meal. The littleneck clams are tender, sweet and briny with clam juice and white wine. The linguine is seasoned with parsley, salt and ground black pepper, and neither too chewy nor too limp, _just_ right.

“Yeah. He’s been here. Several times. Alone.”

Huggy is still standing there behind the bar, wiping some beer mugs dry with a clean cloth. Huggy isn’t looking at him. Indeed, to anyone else, Huggy seems to be doing his own thing and paying him no mind.

Huggy still isn’t looking at him as he adds, “The first time he was here, he couldn't even take more than three bites of his burger."

Hutch gulps down a mouthful or two of his beer, gazing at the polychromatic display of stacked liquor bottles behind Huggy. If this is how Huggy wants to play it, well, two of them can play at this game.

"Wouldn’t say a word to me. Looked like his heart got _torn_ right outta his body, still beating. Looked like he watched it get stomped on the ground till there was nothing left of it."

Hutch resists the impulse to glance at Huggy. He resumes eating the linguine, and tells himself that his hand grasping the fork isn’t quivering.

"If I didn't know better, I'd swear he looked just like a really _lovesick_ guy who's convinced he'll never love again."

Hutch has to inhale deeply through his nose before he can swallow his mouthful of linguine and clams.

_Stop it, Huggy. Stop giving me hope._

“So he’s got problems with his girlfriend, or whatever,” he murmurs impassively, scooping up another forkful of linguine.

“I know for a _fact_ that he isn’t seeing anyone, _period_.”

Huggy is gazing at him now, folding the cloth and placing it on the counter top. Huggy’s expression is inscrutable. They stare at each other for a minute. Then, smirking, trusting his expression and droll tone to camouflage the emotions roiling within him, Hutch replies, " _Starsky?_ Not seeing anyone? Sometimes you're full of shit, Huggy."

Huggy isn’t affronted in the least by his last remark.

"You wanna see a guy who's full of shit, take a look in the mirror sometime,” Huggy says, expression as inscrutable as ever, those brown eyes suddenly too shrewd for Hutch’s comfort, and Hutch looks away, back at his half-eaten meal. He hears Huggy walk away, farther down the bar and out of his view, and though Hutch should be feeling relieved about that, he isn’t.

The back of the display of liquor bottles, from top to bottom, is overlaid with panels of mirrors that are reflecting jocund soirees occurring around him. Reflecting his stricken expression.

What remains of Hutch’s meal is getting cold when Huggy comes back to the bar and mixes up Cosmopolitans for an order. Huggy is observing a stream of vodka flow into a cocktail glass from a bottle of Stolichnaya in his hand as he says, “When he gave up trying to eat that burger, do you know what he ordered, Hutch? Nuh uh, it wasn’t beer Starsky wanted. Oh _no_ , Starsky’s no _beer_ man anymore, see. He likes the _hard_ stuff now. Whisky, _straight up_.”

Hutch stares at Huggy’s face, his mouth dry and devoid of words. Huggy is now pouring some Triple sec liquor into several glasses.

“He comes in here, alone every time. He orders _at least_ two to five shots of whisky straight up and says nothing else, to _anybody_. Just a lean, mean, _brooding_ machine all in _black_. Like he’s in _mourning_. Like _nothing_ can touch him, not even all the _pretty_ ladies who go up to him and shake their tushies at him.” Huggy pauses for a couple of seconds to pluck up a bottle of cranberry juice from behind him and then says, “One night, while he’s sitting right where you are, drinking his whisky and looking like his heart’s _gone_ , up comes this _sexy_ , _foxy_ mama with long, golden hair all the way to her hips and large, brown eyes and _luscious_ , red lips. A perfect ten, more beautiful than Lady Godiva herself, cuddling up to him and whispering the kind of promises most men in this world can only _dream_ of … and do you know what Starsky does?”

Huggy snorts and pours some lime juice into the concoctions, shaking his head in incredulity.

“He acts like she don’t even _exist_. Like it ain’t _her_ he wants to see. When she doesn’t get the hint, do you know what Starsky does next? He tells her to fuck off and leave him _alone_. A _perfect ten_ , Hutch, the kind of chick even a Casanova like Starsky will only come across _once_ in a lifetime, and he tells her to _fuck off_. Freaky _-deaky_ behavior for our Starsky, don’t you think so?”

Hutch’s response is to gulp down another mouthful of beer, his chest constricted, his stomach churning. He doesn’t know what the hell to make of Huggy’s disclosure. He’s witnessed Starsky drunk quite a few times, and every time, Starsky became even _more_ outgoing and cheery, all smiles and unconstrained physical affection. Particularly towards _him_.

Who _is_ this wrathful, menacing, whisky-chugging Starsky who tells beautiful women to get lost?

It certainly isn’t the Starsky _he_ knew. The Starsky he knew would have pounced on such a woman like white on rice and had his carnal way with her till kingdom come. And then some!

_No, Hutchinson, you mean the officially 100% heterosexual, overcompensating Starsky would do that. The Starsky you REALLY knew loved getting fucked in the ass fast and HARD. All the time, all over the bed, the couch, the kitchen counter, the wall, and even that motorcycle you had in the living room. Remember?_

Hutch’s hands clamp around his quarter-full beer mug.

“Another night – and probably one of the most _exciting_ nights The Pits has ever had yet – Starsky decides he wants _more_ than a few shots of whisky.” Huggy has handed over the cocktails to a waitress and is gazing him in the eye, forearms on the counter top. “Starsky decides he wants the _whole_ bottle, all to himself, and there I am, thinking to myself, well, _shit_ , the last time he had more than _six_ shots of whisky straight up, I almost had to call in a professional _clean-up crew_ just to scrub his radioactive _puke_ off my floor. So I say him, ‘Starsky, don’t bogart the whisky. A man’s only got _so_ much space for it in his belly,’ and _dude_ , did things get heavy or did they get _heavy!_ ”

Huggy shakes his head again, his expression this time a rueful one.

“He already had four shots before that. Didn’t eat anything, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t eat anything _before_ coming here either ‘cause, there he is, _all_ over the place, hollering his head off to the max when he can’t even _stand_ without throwing himself across the bar and clinging onto it like some _crazy_ squirrel, and thank heavens it was closing time so only a few _unfortunate_ patrons were privy to a really drunk, _violent_ Starsky _calling me out_ over a bottle of _whisky_.”

Hutch gapes at Huggy, his lips parted.

“Starsky _fought_ with you?”

“It wasn’t Starsky, Hutch. It was the _drink_ in him fighting with me. I had to yell for my good brotha, T-Bone, to pry his hands _loose_ from the whisky bottle I was holding onto and drag him off the bar and haul him upstairs to bed … well, once he gave up fighting and puked his guts up on the floor _again_. I’ve seen Starsky pardy hardy before, but that night? He took partying to a whole new _level_.”

T-Bone, short for Trombone Coleman, is Huggy’s seven-foot-tall chef two years and counting, a giant of a man and former bouncer of some of the most popular clubs in town. All muscle, including a heart as big as the man himself. The image of T-Bone carrying a drunk, nauseated Starsky up the two flights of stairs to the office on the first floor is a believable one. A heartrending one.

Huggy is staring at him now, those large eyes wide with realization.

“You really didn’t know about all this, did you?”

Hutch says nothing. He simply stares back, at a loss for a reply.

“Hutch, when was the last time you _saw_ Starsky?”

There is something in Huggy’s tone, something that smacks of self-righteousness. Perhaps it’s just Hutch’s imagination that it’s there, that it’s just the reality of Simmons’ assertions about Starsky hitting the bottle sinking home, that he should have _done_ something after Simmons had told him about Diaz’s run in with Starsky and all he did was … nothing, while Huggy –

“Why’d you let him drink himself that _sick?_ Why didn’t you _stop_ him!”

He doesn’t know whether he’d snarled or shouted the words at Huggy. He can sense eyes on him, the eyes of other nearby customers who’ve quietened and are watching the confrontation develop. He glowers at Huggy, his scowling face thrust forward, and he doesn’t recoil or look away when Huggy leans forward even more, till there is a scant three inches of space between the tips of their noses and Huggy is glowering too, lips pursed and downturned.

“You think I would _really_ let a _good_ friend hurt himself? You think me a _chump_ who doesn’t _care_ about Starsky? What would you rather I _pick_ , Hutch, let Starsky drink his ass off in my establishment where I can keep an _eye_ on him, or let Starsky book it to some _dive_ that doesn’t give a _damn_ about him, _hmm?_ Some dive that might just give him whatever he _wants_ as long as he _pays_ for it and let him drive all _drunk_ and end up _killing_ himself on the road!”

Their showdown of glares lasts a mere five seconds.

Hutch is the first to avert his gaze, bowing his head, his ferocious expression transmuting into a crestfallen one. He stares at the leftovers of his linguine and clams, his shoulders slumped. He swallows visibly at Huggy’s hand touching his shoulder and then squeezing it.

“Hutch,” Huggy says compassionately, and he raises his head to look Huggy in the eye. “We are gonna talk all this out. _Tonight_. Ya dig it?”

The ends of Hutch’s lips curve up in a small, reassured smile.

“I dig it.” His smile broadens. “You got any more of those fries?”

Huggy also smiles, then gives his shoulder a slap.

“One _big_ bowl of fries, coming right up.”

The rest of the night coasts by like white smoke unfurling from a lit cigarette, airily, swimmingly, while he sits where he is at the bar, munching on fries like the ones he had for lunch today. Anita refills his beer an hour before closing time, at Huggy’s bidding. At half past one in the morning, once the last patron has departed and the tables and bar have been cleared, Hutch assists Huggy in stacking up chairs on their respective tables. The brief workout burns the somnolence of alcohol out of his system, and he is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as he and Huggy sit side by side on stools at the bar. Huggy decants them both fresh mugs of beer from a full pitcher left on the counter by Anita before she went home.

“You can quit the Ice Man act.”

Hutch sends Huggy a sharp glance. Huh, here’s _another_ person who’s associated ice with him. Is he seriously _that_ transparent these days?

"You ain’t fooling me, Hutch. I _know_ you still care about him. You wouldn't have sat there listening to me talk about him, much less _waited_ the whole night, if you didn't. Just can't _freeze_ the love out of your heart, can you?"

Huggy is smiling fondly, but Hutch can’t bring himself to smile at the blunt truth and takes a sip of his beer instead. No, in Huggy’s case, it isn’t transparency, it’s a matter of he and Huggy having been close friends for so many years. Huggy is one of the very few people in his life who he trusts unconditionally with it. One of the very few who’d accepted him and Starsky as two halves of a whole, without reservation, from the very beginning.

Hutch sets down his mug on the counter top. Then, staring at it, he murmurs, “I thought I’d be over it by now, you know? It’s been over two months since he … it’s been over two months since, and here I am, back at square one. Kicking the Starsky addiction.”

“Is that how you see your relationship with Starsky? An _addiction?_ ”

Hutch displays a half-hearted smirk. Heh, talk about a Freudian slip, and to the only other person who’d beheld him in the agony of a vicious heroin withdrawal.

“What else do you call it? Caring about a guy who obviously doesn’t give a _crap_ about you anymore. Certainly isn’t _healthy_.” Not waiting for a reaction from Huggy, he leaps to his feet and paces the floor between the bar and the pool table, his hands clenching and unclenching. He does it for a while before he mutters, “I can’t figure it out, Huggy. I can’t figure out why everything’s _different_ now. Can’t figure out why he – he … _damnit_ , I try not to think about it, about what he _did_ , but the more I try not to, the more I _do_ and then I start thinking about him _all_ the time and then I have to keep telling myself it’s _useless_ , it’s _illogical_ to think about the whys and what ifs now. Starsky made his _choice_ , he’s gone, _vamoosed_ , and there’s _nothing_ I can do to change it now. My – my _brain_ knows that, but my … but _my fucking heart just won’t accept it!_ ”

His bellowed words resonate off the walls of the bar and bistro. Standing with his back towards Huggy, he sucks in a deep breath, then exhales and deliberately relaxes his body.

"Feels good, doesn't it? Letting it out."

There is no mockery in Huggy’s voice. Hutch swivels around and sees the support in Huggy’s kind, brown eyes.

“Feel _better_ , yeah,” he replies, smiling softly. He shuffles back to his seat at the bar, and a minute of easy silence passes as Huggy drinks from his own mug. Then, Huggy surprises him with two sincere words.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I thought you knew. About Starsky’s … _issues_. Thought you knew and …”

“Didn’t care?”

Hutch smiles again, to soften his reply, and Huggy smiles in apology and nods.

“I get it now. Why you hadn’t come around for so long. He’s _everywhere_ in here.”

Hutch doesn’t deny it. Without looking at it, he gestures at the pool table.

“Especially there.”

He senses more than sees Huggy turn on the stool to glance at the bounded table with its flat, quarried slate covered by green cloth.

“Yeah, I hear you on that. The two of you played a _lotta_ games on it.” Huggy turns back to face him. “You know, Starsky behaved just like you, every time he came here. Wouldn’t look at anything unless he had to. He’d just _stare_ at his drink or at the bottles on display, and ignore everyone else except me till he was too drunk to know which way was up. I’d say, to him, _you_ were everywhere in here, too.”

Hutch lowers his gaze to his mug of beer, his heart weighty with nostalgia. Huggy’s just being nice to him, that’s all, consoling him by making him think that Starsky feels the same way he does, that Starsky can’t forget him either and sees him in everything, everywhere. That Starsky misses him too.

That Starsky loves him, still.

“I’m as _baffled_ as you are about all of it,” Huggy says, frowning mildly. “When I heard the word that you and Starsky were no longer partners, I thought it was some _sick joke_ somebody was playing on me. I didn’t believe it for a _second_. I just assumed you two were gonna swagger in here like you always do and we’d have a good _laugh_ over the rumor and then … when Starsky came here alone for the first time, I took one look at him, at his _face_ , and I knew it was the cold, hard truth.

“I almost didn’t recognize him with his new haircut and threads. Got so used to his _curly_ head, I thought it was some dude who just _really_ looked like him, until he sat his lily-white ass down right here and looked me in the eye with bloodshot baby blues and demanded two shots of whisky, straight up. It … it _scared_ me, seeing him that way. It was like someone else was wearing Starsky’s face. Somebody _bad_ to the bone, somebody with a lotta _self-hatred_ inside him.”

Hutch glances at the other man, then says, “Self-hatred?”

“Yeah. I’ve been around long enough to know when a guy hates the world and wants to destroy it … and when a guy hates his _own_ guts and wants to destroy _himself_.” Huggy sighs deeply. “Happy people don’t drink themselves into a coma, Hutch. Only people trying to run away from reality do that.”

Hutch fiddles with the handle of his mug.

“You might want to add a lot of _Hutch-hatred_ to that self-hatred.”

Huggy looks hard at him for a moment, then asks, “You think Starsky _hates_ you?”

“How else do you explain what happened to – to us?”

“When have you ever known Starsky to _hate_ somebody?”

Hutch glances down at the bar’s counter top, still fiddling with the handle of his beer mug. Huggy has a good point there. Hutch has seen Starsky in all sorts of moods, ranging from child-like elation to dreary depression to fiery rage. But hatred?

Starsky had every right to hate George Prudholm, after the insane sonofabitch escaped from the mental institution and shot Starsky’s girlfriend, Terry, in the head out of vengeance and caused her consequent death. Starsky had the opportunity to execute Prudholm by his own hand, twice … but both times, Starsky had chosen justice over vigilantism. Both times, Starsky had chosen good over evil.

Of course, that was the Starsky he _knew_. The Starsky no one would have even _dared_ hint at being a dirty cop working for an up-and-coming mobster.

What is the Starsky of _today_ like?

“I never thought Starsky would ever drink himself sick on a regular basis and start _fights_ with you over whisky either.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that.” Huggy shifts on the stool, to a more comfy position, then says, “The way he was so _tattered_ , I thought it was _you_ who wanted the partnership over. That was the word going around at first.”

Hutch shakes his head.

“I didn’t ask for the partnership to end. I never did. I didn’t even know Starsky had planned to do that at all until he was already _gone_.”

Again, Huggy gives his shoulder a squeeze and again, there is a minute of silence. Hutch gulps another mouthful of beer.

“So … what’s happening with you and Stacey?”

Hutch attempts to smile sanguinely, but it falls short and the smile emerges as one of defeat, of resignation.

“Starsky was wrong ... There won’t be a Mrs. Hutchinson.” Hutch pauses, his throat scratchy. “If ever.”

“Hutch, you ain’t even _forty_ yet. You telling me you don’t intend to _ever_ get married? That you’re giving up on finding the _one?_ ”

_I’ve already found the one, Huggy, eight years ago. And he’s no woman._

Hutch replies verbally with, “I’m tired. I’m tired of it all.”

“So, you and Stacey …”

“The last time we spoke, it was on the phone, and she was _very_ clear about her displeasure with me and my … lack of presence lately. And I don’t know what to do about it. I … I think that, maybe, I _don’t_ want to do anything about it.”

Huggy says nothing to that. His commiserating expression is enough for Hutch.

“You and Stacey were _dynamite_ that night, when you two had dinner here with Starsky. She’s a sweet and smart lady.”

“Yeah, she is. But …” Hutch runs the fingers of his right hand through his spiky hair, then rests an elbow on the counter top and props his head up with his hand. “That night, right after Starsky left, Stacey was acting … _strange_. She asked me if he was okay and I told her yeah, he was. Starsky’s a tough guy, and I should know, I watched him come back from – from _three bullets_ to his _chest_.”

“That he did.”

“Yeah. So a little _cold_ wasn’t going to take him down, right? For some reason, I don’t know, for some reason she seemed _unhappy_ that I wasn’t going after him. I told her I’d call him up after dinner and see how he’s doing, and she cheered up after that. And I _did_ call him, after I’d driven us back to her home, and he seemed alright. He just sounded like he had a bad cold. You know, sniffling, hoarse voice, like his nose was blocked, and I could hear him …”

Hutch is abruptly struck dumb as his mind conjures up the memory of that phone call, at its richest in detail since the actual night. As Starsky was mumbling to him, persuading him to stop worrying about him already and have fun with Stacey, he’d heard … the clink of glass. The clink of glass against glass, and then … the sound of liquid, sluicing –

“You could hear him what?”

“I could hear him … pouring something. From a … bottle.”

Huggy’s eyes widen in stupefaction.

“Starsky had a bad cold … and he was _drinking?_ ”

Hutch gives the other man a pointed look.

“I don’t know for _certain_ , Huggy. For all we know, it could have been just _orange juice_. I can tell you this, I never smelled booze on him while we worked together in the weeks after that. _Never_.”

“It don’t mean he wasn’t already drinking. He could have, at night. When you weren’t looking.” Huggy angles his head, eagle-eyed. “You only remembered the drinking bit just _now_ , didn’t you?”

There goes Huggy, making another sorely insightful point. What _other_ significant detailsabout the situation has his mind overlooked?

“I don’t know. I just …”

Hutch takes several swigs of his beer. As soon as he puts down his mug on the counter top, Huggy replenishes it.

“Gimme the skinney on what the two of you did after that night, until he transferred to Narco,” Huggy says benignly.

Hutch doesn’t bother asking how Huggy knows to which department Starsky has been reassigned. It would be like a slap to the guy’s face.

“When I saw him the next day, he was just _fine_. He said it was just some ‘twelve-hour cold’ or something. Never heard of such a thing myself, but I didn’t question him about it.” Hutch sighs. “Things were _better_ after that. It was like … the _old days_ again. Like our first year as partners, when we were _clicking_ and we read each other like _books_ that no one else could read. After all those months of him being all _argumentative_ and _crabby_ , he was suddenly … just like his old self again. He stopped snapping at me. Stopped shutting me out. He started spending time with me again. Lots of time.”

“Well, you two turkeys didn’t spend it here,” Huggy says with a mock glower and a slight smile, and Hutch also smiles and replies, “It wasn’t like we were avoiding you or anything like that. Starsky, he wanted to do all these _things_ he never wanted to before. Like, go to _museums_ with me to look at _art_ , or watch _plays_ he could never stand, or go _joyriding_ in the Torino for hours and just talk about random stuff or even go _swimming_ at the beach, and you _know_ how much Starsky hates water.”

“As much as he hates my _mustard green broth_.”

They snicker in reminiscence of another time Starsky had contracted a bad cold, after hurdling off a pier into glacial waters because he’d presumed Hutch was drowning. Starsky had felt so terrible that he required two blankets from chin to toes and a heated towel draping his head, and he’d sounded terrible too, as if his voice was grinded on a cheese grater.

But then, Starsky hadn’t sounded anywhere as terrible as when Hutch had spoken with him on the phone, after the dinner with Stacey. Sure as hell wasn’t _drinking_ either. _If_ that’s what Starsky was doing when he called the guy.

If. So many goddamn ifs.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Starsky was trying to cram a whole _lifetime_ of experiences with you into a couple of weeks.”

Hutch’s expression becomes saturnine.

“Doubt it.”

“Why? ‘Cause you _think_ Starsky hates you?”

“You tell me, Huggy. What sort of pal just ups and _leaves_ after eight years of partnership? Without a _word?_ ”

He knows the bitterness in his voice is evident as Huggy gazes at him with that inscrutable expression again, like Huggy is seeing something in him that he can’t. _Won’t_.

“Hutch, I know you’re hurting, and you got the right to be. But I’d like you to think about this too: If he really hates you like you think he does, why’d he spend all that time with you? Why’d he make the effort to do _all_ those things that _you_ like, _with_ you? Sure don’t sound like _hatred_ to me.”

Hutch shuts his eyes.

_Stop it, Huggy. Please. Stop giving me all this hope._

“Dobey told me Starsky had submitted his transfer request around the time we had dinner here with Stacey. Or after. I don’t know,” he whispers, opening his eyes to slits. “Starsky was just doing all those things because he was … he was saying _goodbye_.”

Huggy takes his time in refilling his own mug, emptying the pitcher. Then, out of the blue, Huggy asks, “Do you remember the months when Starsky was in the hospital?”

Hutch blinks, his brows furrowing.

“Of course I do. I was there almost every day until Starsky was discharged.”

Huggy leans sideways against the bar, propping himself up with one bent arm on the counter top. That discerning gleam is back in Huggy’s eyes.

“There were a few times that you weren’t there when I visited him. Whenever it was just me and him, he was always _quiet_ , bundled up in blankets to his neck, like a big baby. Like he was _saving_ his energy for when he really needed it. For a while, I thought I was just _thinking_ too much about it for my own good … but then one time, I was there with him first before you showed up, and when you stepped into the room …” Huggy grins and shakes his head in awe. “Man, it was like the _sun_ was shining again in Starsky’s eyes. Never seen him smile _that_ big at anyone else.” Huggy gives Hutch another hard look. “You never _noticed_ the way Starsky _looked_ whenever you visited him at the hospital?”

Hutch gazes at the other man, but what he sees now are the pristine white walls of a hospital room, the opened, olive-colored curtains exposing a vista of morning sunshine on the splendid purple-blue flowers of Jacaranda trees bordering the hospital’s visitor car park, and a bed. An occupied bed, with white, fluffy pillows buttressing a head of thick, dark curls and woolen blankets keeping a frail, recuperating body warm. Starsky is asleep, his mending chest rising and falling stably, his big blue eyes closed, his lush eyelashes fanning haggard cheeks that Hutch caresses with the back of his fingers as he silently watches Starsky slumber.

He is stroking Starsky’s hair when Starsky’s eyes flutter open. They are glazed with weariness, but when they focus on him, on his face, they crinkle and … there it is, there’s that humongous, charismatic smile, and there’s that light in Starsky’s eyes, shining like a newborn star in a universe thought to have died.

That light, for him, and him alone.

“So I ask you again, Hutch, you think Starsky _hates_ you?”

Hutch says nothing in reply to Huggy. The colossal lump in his throat is doing a damn good job of rendering him speechless.

Another minute of silence passes as Huggy drinks his beer and Hutch stares downwards into the distance, into the past, a time when Starsky would have been here at his side, nudging him in the side to share a dumb joke with him or pilfering a sip of his beer although Starsky has his own mug of the brew. Smiling at him, as if the two of them, just the two of them, was all Starsky needed.

Eventually, Hutch murmurs, “When Starsky … drank too much, did he always end up upstairs?”

“Yeah. Every time.”

Hutch grimaces. Huggy has yet to specify how many times Starsky has been here, and Hutch is now afraid to ask.

“I always had the _hunch_ that Starsky didn’t want to go home. That he drank himself till he was down for the count so I’d have no choice but to _accommodate_ him upstairs.”

“Why?”

Huggy gazes him in the eye, then says, “The bed upstairs is the same one _you_ slept in.”

Hutch frowns in befuddlement. What the … he’s never slept upstairs in Huggy’s office before. In fact, he can count the number of times he’s been in the office on one hand, and he never went near the bed, not once. Huggy _must_ be mistaken, unless … oh.

“You mean … you moved the bed from your other place? That it’s the same bed when I was …”

“Yeah. Saw no reason to buy a new one for the office here.”

Hutch runs his fingers through his hair a second time. Okay, yeah, he _has_ slept in Huggy’s office before, in Huggy’s first bar and bistro. He just can’t recall because he’d been out of his mind at the time, in limbo in a world of pain while his wrecked body struggled against itself, against the _craving_ for more heroin … and Starsky had been there with him for all forty-eight hours. Embracing him with those muscular arms, stroking his cheek and underside of his jaw with those large hands. Hugging him tight to a sturdy, stocky body when the craving began to really _hurt_ and gnaw its way under his skin and through his flesh. Rocking them both from side to side, humming to him his favorite tunes.

Kissing him on the forehead, and murmuring words into his hair, words that he couldn’t hear though he’d so longed to do so.

Starsky, an addiction even greater than heroin.

“Did he … ever say anything while he was upstairs?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Huggy’s gaze is steadfast albeit considerate, and Hutch returns the gaze and nods.

Huggy rubs the back of his neck, beneath the denim jacket and white t-shirt, then says, “He doesn’t talk. When he’s still _conscious_ enough for it … he just calls out your name.”

The lump in Hutch’s throat comes back bigger than ever, threatening to choke him. It just … it just doesn’t make _sense_. None of it. If Starsky wanted to end their partnership so badly that Starsky was willing to pretend _to his face_ for almost three weeks that everything was just fine … why resort to such heavy drinking now? Why the extreme change – _negative_ change – in behavior, if Starsky got what he wanted?

Why call for him at all, if what Starsky wanted was to get _away_ from him?

Unless … that’s _not_ what Starsky wanted.

And if that’s true, then what _is_ it that Starsky wants? What did Starsky hope to achieve by ending their partnership and transferring out of Homicide to Narco? Is it just _coincidence_ that occurred … or are the rumors not really _rumors_ after all?

“Huggy … is there talk on the streets about Starsky? That he’s ... possibly gone _dirty?_ ”

Huggy bows his head, then lets out a long sigh.

“Yeah.” Huggy lifts his head. He is scowling in disapproval, though not at Hutch. “And believe you me, I kicked out _every_ nark who was rash enough to talk such _shit_ in my establishment.”

Hutch sends Huggy a small smile of appreciation. Huggy’s abiding loyalty is just one of many positive facets of the slender, sly man’s character that has endeared him and Starsky to the guy. Such allegiance – such _friendship_ – is rare, what more to say one between a white senior detective and a black, street-wise cool cat.

“But I can’t help _thinking_ about it either,” Huggy adds, his scowl changing into a troubled expression. “I didn’t believe the word about Starsky working for The Fin. Not for one damn second. I _still_ don’t. It’s just not _possible_ , man.”

“Did you hear anything about a former Narco cop called Joe Rivera?”

When Huggy shakes his head in negation, Hutch imparts to him all he knows about Rivera, Sweeney’s friend in Robbery/Burglary plus Callahan’s considerations on the situation. He feels his stomach plummet at the blanching of Huggy’s face.

“I won’t deny it, Hutch. This is _bad_. It _is_ one hell of a coincidence that all that happened when Starsky transferred out of Homicide. Maybe _too_ much.” Huggy rubs at his temple with one palm, gazing downwards, lips downturned. “And the fact that he did it behind your _back_ , that he’s _changed_ so much and he won’t even talk to me about _anything_ anymore …”

“I know.”

Huggy goes back to leaning sideways on the counter. He sucks in his lips and then shakes his head.

“We’re missing a _lotta_ pieces of the puzzle here. Too many _gaps_ to fill in, too much _space_ to make the _wrong_ assumptions.”

“What do you know about The Fin?”

Huggy’s brown eyes are piercing with trepidation.

“I only heard about him about eight months ago, a little while after Starsky returned to active duty. The streets were buzzing about a _really_ big player in town who’d laid _low_ for a long time, till Gunther went down. So big, he owns multiple _mansions_ around the country and rides around in Rolls Royce Phantom VI cars imported _direct_ from England. Deals mainly with drugs, the _pure_ , hard stuff, by the _kilos_. He doesn’t think twice about getting rid of _anyone_ who gets in his way. He’s bad news. _Real_ bad news, and I don’t mean your usual _poh-leece_ fanfare of bad.”

Hutch’s stomach plummets even more.

“How bad we talking here?”

“Word is that he has a fondness for …” Huggy swallows visibly. “Having people killed by slicing their _throats_ open from ear to ear. _Slowly_. While they’re _awake_.”

The gory imagery is nauseating even to Hutch who has seen many corpses in a variety of states since he became a homicide detective. To kill another human being in such a manner speaks of true cruelty, of a _revelry_ in another human being’s suffering in their final moments of life.

“What’s really scary about him is that he _doesn’t_ kill indiscriminately. He’s got a _brain_ and he knows how to _use_ it. He _knows_ what he’s doing, Hutch. I think he’s right up _there_ with Gunther. Maybe even _worse_.”

Hutch rubs at the skin above his upper lip. It’s becoming stubbly. He ignores the slight tremor of his fingers.

No, no way. Starsky would _never_ become the cohort of such a sadistic monster. No.

“Now The Fin, _he’s_ the kinda guy Starsky could _hate_ , not _work_ for,” Huggy says, echoing his thoughts. “There is just _no way_ Starsky’s part of this guy’s _hood_.”

“Unless he’s … being blackmailed.”

Huggy glances at him sharply.

“Blackmailed? What could there _be_ out there to _blackmail_ Starsky?”

_Oh, I don’t know, Huggy, maybe pictures of him being fucked in the ass by his cop partner and loving every bit of it?_

Hutch runs one hand down his face.

“Hutch?”

“It’s … it’s just speculation, that’s all,” he mumbles, leaning both forearms on the bar’s counter top and letting his head fall forward.

“You _sure_ of that?”

He doesn’t look at Huggy. He stares down at rings of water on the counter top, at his face reflected in the counter top’s burnished surface. He’s got that groove between his eyebrows, the one he has every time he’s worried, worried enough for the anxiety to go deep into his marrow and extract all energy from it. His lips are pressed into a straight line. His eyes are narrowed, shuttered.

His eyes had been narrowed too on that day, that sunny day when he and Starsky had made love for the fourth time in his Venice Beach canal cottage. The sunlight was cascading into his eyes as he drew the curtains of his bedroom shut. Once he did that, the room dimmed into a cozy, enclosed space, still lit to some degree by the sunlight filtering through the pastel-colored cloth of the curtains.

Starsky was half-way stripping off his dark blue t-shirt, head and arms enveloped by the shirt. Starsky had emitted a rather unmanly, muffled squeak as Hutch rushed over from the windows to Starsky standing at the side of the bed and playfully pushed Starsky onto the bed on his back, confining Starsky’s head and arms in the t-shirt by gripping Starsky’s wrists with one hand above Starsky’s head. Starsky had chortled gleefully, arching and twisting that well-built, furry body against his, grinding their still-clothed groins together, and then Starsky’s laughter became moans and gasps as he licked, nibbled and sucked his way down Starsky’s neck and across Starsky’s hairy chest, from the left nipple to the right one, laving them ardently with his tongue.

Starsky was panting and curling toes as he unzipped Starsky’s jeans and tugged them off shapely legs. Starsky wasn’t wearing any underwear, and it didn’t surprise Hutch. He wasn’t wearing any under his own jeans either. Starsky pleaded with him to remove his socks as well, to remove his t-shirt so they could kiss. He did away with his own clothes and then Starsky’s shirt but not the socks, and before Starsky could complain about that, he swooped in for open-mouthed, tongue-dueling kisses that left them both winded and feeling so damn _good_.

_C’mon, big boy. Show me what ya got._

Starsky was grinning at him. Folding those lean legs around his hips and drawing him closer, till they were molded from chest to groin and their foreheads were touching. This up close, he could feel Starsky’s eyelashes brushing his skin, feel Starsky’s warm breath against his lips. Feel Starsky gazing into his soul, deep inside where no one else had ever been, and he’d kissed Starsky once more, entwining the fingers of his left hand in Starsky’s short curls while his right hand fumbled around beneath the pillows for the tube of lubricant there.

_Want you long and deep, Hutch. So deep you’ll never leave._

Starsky had whispered those words into his lips, and they’d driven him wild, compelling him to devour Starsky’s mouth again and slather a copious amount of lube on his aching cock and on and around the entrance into Starsky’s body and oh, Starsky was grasping his cock and guiding him in and _ooh_ , Starsky was so fucking _tight_ and _amazing_ around him, smooth, clenching _heat_ taking in _all_ of him. Starsky was arching up, throwing his head back, eyelids flickering, mouth open in a soundless cry. Fingers clawing into his lower back, urging him to plow even deeper though he was already as deep as he could go, and when Starsky grinned at him again, he was done for, eager slave to his furiously thrusting body and Starsky’s high-pitched groans and Starsky’s thighs clamping his waist and Starsky’s arms squeezing his shoulders until they were coming, coming hard together.

So beautiful. So damn beautiful, and everything he’s ever needed.

“Hutch?”

Starsky had fallen asleep while stroking his hair, head turned to the side and right arm on the bed, and he’d reached out with his left hand to interlace their fingers. He listened to Starsky’s stabilizing heartbeat. Felt Starsky’s chest rise and fall underneath his cheek, and smiled and stared with half-shut eyes at the curtains. The closed curtains.

Yes, they had _always_ closed the curtains. Unless there was some new-fangled camera years ago that was capable of seeing through curtains and _walls_ , the chances of someone having physical evidence of his – _yes_ , damnit – _relationship_ with Starsky is … nil.

“I’m sure, Huggy. I’m sure.”

Blinking a few times, Hutch sits up and turns on his seat to face Huggy. He lets Huggy scrutinize him, unperturbed by Huggy’s reluctance to accept his answer immediately. Whatever Huggy sees on his facial features seems to mollify the man, and Huggy huffs out a breath and then relaxes against the counter.

“You know what else has been bugging me about all this?” Huggy says. “I’d bet fifty bucks _upfront_ that Starsky knows about the _rumors_ by now. You would _think_ he would _say_ something in his own defense.”

Hutch crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly sensing the day’s lassitude bear down on him.

“I don’t know. Maybe he just doesn’t care about them. Maybe he … he trusts us to trust _him_.”

“Maybe he doesn’t care about _anything_ anymore.”

Hutch’s head snaps up in response, his blue eyes wide.

“A man who’s on self-destruct mode like he is … is a man who’s got _nothing_ left to _lose_.”

“You talk about him as if he’s got a – a _death wish_ ,” Hutch murmurs, and Huggy, his expression somber, says, “Maybe he does, Hutch. Maybe he does.”

Hutch gets no slumber at all that night, plagued by imaginings of a comatose Starsky with numerous gunshot wounds, a Starsky who’d died and didn’t come back. He is bleary-eyed and dog-tired in the morning when Callahan picks him up for work.

“Wow,” Callahan says to him once he’s slumped in the passenger seat of the Chevelle Malibu. “Long night with your lady?”

“Nah. Stacey didn’t join me for dinner. Stayed till half past two at The Pits.”

“Long night with Mr. Bear then.”

“Yeah. He told me what he knew so far about The Fin.”

When Hutch doesn’t say more, Callahan asks, “Bad news, I take it?”

“Depends on your definition of bad.”

“Gambino bad?”

“Maybe. Probably. He’s a really big player, but not a new one. Filthy rich. Deals with hard drugs, by the kilos. Came out of the woodworks after I arrested Gunther and took him off the streets. He has a thing for …” Hutch pauses and waits for the churning of his cereal and milk-filled stomach to settle. “For cutting people’s throats from ear to ear. And making sure they _feel_ it.”

He sees Callahan’s lips compress and brows crease.

“And Starsky?”

“Seems Starsky’s playing the dark, silent archetype to the extreme. Huggy has yet to get anything resembling a conversation out of him.”

“So we’re still on the same square.”

“Yeah. Square one,” Hutch says with a sigh.

“We’ll talk to him when he gets back, Hutch.”

“Yeah. Hey …” Hutch turns his head to look at Callahan. Callahan is garbed in that grey, pinstriped suit but has a different tie on today, a light blue paisley one. Callahan appears well-rested and in top form. “How’d your _date_ go?”

The tips of Callahan’s lips curve up in a small albeit buoyant smile.

“I had a good time.”

“And that’s all you’re going to tell me, isn’t it?”

He chuckles along with Callahan and doesn’t inquire more. If Callahan had a good night, that’s all he needs to know.

The rest of the drive to the Metro is hushed apart from the noises of other vehicles zooming past them on the Santa Monica freeway, of the latest hits, including Diana Ross’ Upside Down, playing on the radio. They are almost on the Rosa Parks freeway when the radio intercom buzzes with an incoming call from Dispatch who connects them to Diaz.

“Diaz, what’s up?” Hutch says into the palm microphone.

“You didn’t hear yet?”

“Hear what?”

“Simmons got jumped by some thugs in ski masks last night. Beaten up pretty bad. He’s at Mount Sinai. Babcock’s there with him.”

Hutch has to force himself to ease his crushing hold on the microphone before saying, “Thanks for the heads up. Going right now.”

Hutch gives directions to Callahan to take the upcoming exit on the left to La Cienega Boulevard, and then left again after several miles onto Beverly Boulevard on which the hospital is located. Neither man speak as Callahan drives down George Burns Road and then maneuvers the car into the visitors’ parking lot on the right that’s in front of the Steven Spielberg building that houses the hospital’s ambulatory care center. Even this early in the morning, the parking lot is almost full, and Callahan has to circle the area twice before encountering a free space. They walk briskly out of the parking lot, across and down George Burns Road and then down Gracie Allen Drive to the visitors’ entrance in the South tower of the hospital, still saying nothing, their breaths perceptible mist in the winter air. At the information desk, Hutch asks for the whereabouts of Simmons’ room, and they go up to the fifth floor via elevator.

They find Babcock, in a black, woolen pea coat, white t-shirt and jeans, sitting on a chair beside the bed upon which Simmons is reclined under a blanket. Hutch’s teeth grind at the sight of the appalling contusions disfiguring Simmons’ entire face. Both of Simmons’ eyes are bruised and swollen. Simmons’ left cheek is at least twice as distended as the right one, and the lower lip is split on its left side, indicating that whoever punched Simmons is right-handed. There is a strip of medical tape and a bandage across the bridge of Simmons’ puffed-up nose. Possibly broken.

Babcock glances at them as they enter the room and saunter to Simmons’ bedside. The fury in Babcock’s eyes doesn’t alarm Hutch. He knows exactly how Babcock is feeling, how frustrating and _galling_ it is to be powerless to do anything when your partner has been harmed.

“’Ey, ‘utch.”

Simmons’ red eyes are opened into slits, and they gaze at him with an amiability that makes his throat constrict.

“Hey, Simmons. How you holding up?”

He gently pats Simmons’ right shoulder above the blanket, uncertain of what other injuries Simmons may have sustained.

“Look worse … tha’ it feels.”

Hutch gives Simmons a reassuring smile.

“Takes more than this to bring down the Legendary Schmoozer of the Metro, huh?”

“I found him early this morning in his apartment, About four o’clock,” Babcock says. Hutch and Callahan look at him and listen attentively. “He managed to crawl to the phone after those _fuckers_ beat him up till he couldn’t even sit up.”

“Thugs in ski masks?” Hutch asks.

Babcock nods, scowling intensely.

“Yeah. Four of them. Pros, from the looks of it. They thrashed his place up good. Thrashed _everything_ , even the goddamn _furniture_.”

“’utch.”

Simmons has raised a wobbly right hand from beneath the blanket and clutches Hutch’s left wrist with it. There are welts on Simmons’ hand as well. Simmons had fought back, and with any luck, given some of those thugs shiners of their own.

“Dobey was ‘ere … an’ Simonetti …”

Hutch goes ice-cold inside, but on the outside, his expression is composed and he places his right hand over Simmons’ in a gesture of comfort. Dobey coming in to see Simmons is a given, knowing their captain’s kindheartedness and devotion to his men … but _Simonetti_ –

“Simonetti and Dryden had no reason to come around, but they did anyway. Simonetti kept asking him to describe what the goons wore and whether they _said_ anything to him. Kept asking him if Starsky had anything to do with the attack,” Babcock says. “He told Simonetti nothing about it.”

Hutch gazes down into Simmons’ bruised eyes. Simmons gazes right back, although more dully.

“About what?” Hutch asks Simmons.

“One a’ the goons … ‘e said somethin’ to me … ‘fore I blacked out.” Simmons sucks in a shallow breath, then murmurs, “’Starsky says hi … an’ to … keep yer big fuckin’ mouth shut.’”

Hutch stares at Simmons, his eyes stark and his chest frozen. Shit … _shit_ , now there’s an actual _link_ between Starsky and these unidentified thugs in ski masks, and Simonetti is now unquestionably gunning for Starsky. The only reason Simonetti would demand to know what the thugs were wearing is if Simonetti has similar testimonies of assaults by such thugs and needs corroboration for his investigation … which also means that Simonetti has probably found out about the assaults on the other cops involved in the situation. It’s only a matter of time until Simonetti and Dryden hunt Starsky down. And Starsky’s out there somewhere, and Hutch can’t get to him and _talk_ to him about all this.

Where does he go from here? What the hell can he do to _help_ Starsky? And what the hell is he going to do, if Starsky _doesn’t_ want his help?

If Starsky wants to _destroy_ himself, like Huggy averred?

“They fu’ up, man … they fu’ up …”

Simmons is .. _snickering_.

“Simmons.” Hutch squeezes the reclined man’s hand, just a bit. “ _Danny._ What do you mean?”

“Ya think Starsky wou’ … let a goon … use ‘is _name_ like tha’ … ‘less they were … s’ppose to _kill_ me?” Simmons sucks in another shallow breath. “Why Starsky? Why no’ The Fin … huh? Goons work … fo’ th’ _boss_ … not another … goon.”

Hutch exchanges glances with Callahan, then with Babcock.

“Stinks too much … o’ a _set-up_ now … They were … teachin’ me a lesson … S’all. Wan’ me alive … so they can _use_ me to … _fit up_ Starsky.”

Simmons’ eyes are shut, his right hand limp in Hutch’s grasp. As Hutch gently shifts the hand from his wrist to the bed, Babcock stands up and rearranges the blanket so that it is covering the hand again. Then, with Hutch and Callahan watching, Babcock pulls the edging of the blanket up to Simmons’ chin and tucks it around Simmons’ neck, as if Babcock knows that this is how his partner prefers it.

Hutch’s throat constricts again. He, too, had once taken care of Starsky this way, and been rewarded by the sweetest of smiles and face nuzzles against his neck while he cuddled Starsky in his arms and they snuggled underneath the blankets.

“See?”

Simmons’ eyes are still shut, but he is smiling.

“What?” Babcock says.

“Knew you care ‘bout me,” Simmons mumbles, and for the first time, Hutch sees Babcock turning beetroot red from forehead to neck.

“Don’t make me _smack_ you,” Babcock replies, sitting back down and looking anywhere except at Hutch and Callahan standing on the other side of the bed.

Simmons simply continues to smile.

Then, when they all become aware that Simmons has gone to sleep, Hutch asks, “How bad is he?”

Babcock’s scowl returns.

“Lost one or two teeth. Busted some of his ribs. Hairline fracture on his left radius bone. Bruised everywhere. Doctor thought he had some internal bleeding in his belly and he almost ended up in surgery, but he didn’t. Hospital will probably let him out in a day or two. He’ll be staying at my place.”

Hutch gazes down at Simmons’ face again. Ruthlessness like this adds up with what Huggy had told him about The Fin. If these thugs really are The Fin’s henchmen and this is their idea of just ‘teaching a lesson’ …

“This was a message to us,” Hutch says, frowning. “These guys mean business.”

“Simmons had a point though, Hutch,” Callahan says, and Hutch turns to look at the younger detective. “The boss gives the orders, not another goon.”

“Unless Starsky _isn’t_ just a goon,” Babcock says.

Hutch and Callahan glance at the seated man.

“Maybe Starsky’s become The Fin’s right hand man. Or at least _somebody_ wants us to think that.”

“You think it’s a set-up too?” Hutch asks.

Babcock sits back on the chair, folding his arms over his chest.

“Hutch, Sims and I, we’ve worked with you and Starsky for many years. Long enough that we _know_ Starsky would never do this. Not his style. He’s got a temper, yeah, but if he _really_ wanted to hurt somebody, he’d do it _himself._ Not be a _fucking coward_ who sends other guys to do the dirty work. I agree with Sims. It _stinks_ of a set-up to make Starsky look real bad. If Simonetti and Dryden get hold of this, Starsky could go down and _stay_ down, even if it turns out to be just nasty talk.”

“Who wants to back up a dirty cop who hurts other cops, right?” Callahan says quietly, and Babcock nods.

“I know I’d think twice about helping out a cop who’d do _this_ to a fellow cop.” Babcock gesticulates with his right hand towards Simmons who’s now snoring. “This crosses the _line_ , man. Whatever the hell Starsky’s gotten into, he’s in deep shit if _this_ is the lengths these fuckers are willing to go to just to _frame_ him.”

“Or _alienate_ him,” Callahan says. “Maybe that’s what this is really all about. To slowly cut Starsky off from support from other cops.”

Hutch rubs the edge of his lower jaw with his thumb and forefinger, eyebrows furrowing.

“And it isn’t like Simonetti and the rest of IA can just go up to The Fin and ask him if Starsky’s on his payroll … and even if Starsky is innocent and IA doesn’t find any evidence of Starsky being a mole, the damage’s already done.”

“But alienate him for what _reason?_ ” Babcock asks, sitting up, propping his hands on his knees. “What’s the _motive_ for cutting Starsky off from the rest of us? And why associate Starsky with _The Fin?_ ”

“Maybe … maybe there’s a third party. Maybe we aren’t the only ones being _played_ here,” Callahan says. “What we can be sure of now is that these goons _aren’t_ The Fin’s. It doesn’t make sense that The Fin would risk exposing one of his spies like this, regardless of whether it’s true or not that Starsky’s working for him. If you just got yourself a new mole in the police force – a mole with a rep like _Starsky’s_ – and you’re a _smart_ guy, the last thing you’d do is allow your goons to blab his name while beating up a _cop_.”

“Yeah. A cop you leave alive to talk about it,” Babcock replies, gazing at his sleeping partner. His relief that Simmons will be alright is palpable.

“So someone’s playing us _and_ The Fin?” Hutch’s brows furrow even more in deliberation. “But who?”

All of a sudden, Babcock smacks himself on the forehead and mutters to himself, “Shit, I can’t _believe_ I forgot about this!”

“Forgot what?” Hutch asks, and Babcock sits up even more and says, “Sims told me earlier this morning that he met up with a few of his snitches last night and had a good talk with one of them. The guy claimed that there’s been a mole in Narco for a long time … and it’s _not_ Starsky.”

Hutch stands straighter upon hearing that. Callahan glances at him, at the side of his face.

“How trustworthy is this informer?” Hutch asks.

“Sims didn’t stay awake long enough to tell me which one he spoke to. If I knew who he was, I’d be able to tell you. All Sims said was that the mole’s somebody who’s worked in Narco for _years_ , so it _can’t_ be Starsky. He’s only been there for months.”

“Hutch … didn’t Simmons tell you that D’Amato’s been in Narco for at least _ten years?_ ”

Hutch looks sharply at Callahan, then says, “Yeah, he did ... And it _was_ Rivera who suddenly quit the force just before Starsky transferred –“

“Which conveniently freed up D’Amato to be partnered with Starsky.”

“Yeah.”

“Problem is, guys,” Babcock says, “there are a lotta cops in Narco who’ve worked there for years. We dunno more than that right now. And there’s the million-dollar question: If D’Amato _is_ this Narco mole, is he working for _The Fin_ , or for _another_ mob boss? That third party Callahan brought up? There’s no link so far between D’Amato and these goons or The Fin, apart from Rivera quitting under fishy circumstances and him becoming Starsky’s partner in Narco. As much as I _hate_ the racist asshole, I gotta admit, we don’t even know for sure if he _is_ dirty or not.”

Hutch sighs heavily and scratches the back of his bowed head. Then he mutters, “Not yet.”

“If he’s responsible for the rumors, for Simmons getting beat up, we _will_ find that link and make him sorry,” Callahan says with a grim smirk, clearly recollecting D’Amato’s treatment of Minnie.

Their discussion comes to a rapid halt when a nurse enters the room and politely notifies the three detectives that the doctor will be coming around to check on the patient and that they’ll have to leave the room soon. Hutch and Callahan take this as their cue to depart and head back to the Metro before Dobey cuts their heads off and puts them on a platter for being _really_ late today.

“Hutch, you gotta talk to Starsky, man, _get_ him to talk. Before Simonetti and Dryden do,” Babcock says as he ambles with them to the elevator.

“I know, Babcock, I know.”

“And you better warn your pal too. Hugo Bear?”

Hutch smiles at the error. He wonders if it’s a possibility that Hugo _is_ Huggy’s real first name.

“Huggy Bear.”

“Yeah, Huggy Bear. You better warn him to watch his back. If these goons dared to attack a _cop_ in his own home, who knows what they’ll do to somebody who walks the streets and _asks_ too much about The Fin.”

“I will,” he replies as he and Callahan step into the elevator.

Unfortunately, Babcock’s advice will prove to be a little too late.

 

 & & & & & &

 

It’s forty-three minutes past eleven. Over three hours since Hutch’s visit to Mount Sinai.

At this time of the day, The Pits should be already be open for lunch, but it isn’t. Its imposing, wooden entry doors are shut and locked. The white, plastic sign proclaiming ‘We’re Closed’ in red, cursive letters is still hanging outside from a nail on the right door. All the windows are shut and locked as well, barring from the view of the world the ominous scene progressing inside the bar and bistro.

Its owner, in a maroon-colored suit with gold stitching and a bolo tie, is standing behind the bar with his two waitresses, Anita and Rosalia, and Gene, a young, black chef assistant in a white apron and uniform. T-Bone is out cold, his massive physique sprawled on top of the bar and his head drooping over the edge of the counter as if someone had clobbered him and then unceremoniously discarded him there like a floppy toy. Huggy and his other employees are immobile, silent, anxious.

A mob goon in a dark brown suit is also standing behind the bar, four feet away from T-Bone. The gun he’s gripping is aimed straight at Huggy.

Hutch and Callahan are standing side by side between the pool table and the bar. They’re facing the one table that’s occupied, their faces emotionless but their gaze razor-sharp. There is a man sitting on a chair at that table, attired in a silver suit, white dress shirt and a bright red tie, and from the neck up, he is concealed in the shadows of the dimly lit, noiseless place. Behind him and about three feet to the left is another mob goon, a pasty, hulking goliath of a man who is as tall as T-Bone and even broader in the chest and shoulders. The goliath’s hands appear to be almost as big as his head.

Hands that can hurt another man bad. Bad enough to bust ribs and fracture arm bones and bruise a man’s face beyond recognition.

“Everybody okay?” Hutch asks without turning his eyes away from the seated, silver-suited man.

“We good. T-Bone’s not so good though.” Huggy’s voice is low and poised. He’s been in such a predicament many times before. “The big dude there knocked him out with _one_ blow. Be careful, Hutch. He’s got fists like _sledgehammers_.”

Hutch doesn’t reply. He stares at the seated man, at the man’s obscured face. He doesn’t like it one bit that he can’t see the man’s facial features or expression while the man can see his. The bastard’s already exerting control over the arena before the battle’s even begun, laying down the board square by square, coercing him to make the first move in order to see any steps beyond the square upon which he’s standing.

Well, fuck it. He’s no coward, and he sure as hell isn’t the _villain_ here.

“So you’re _The Fin_ , huh?”

The silver-suited man gestures towards another chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Detective Hutchinson, I’ve heard _so_ much about you.” The man’s tongue is apparently as silver as his suit and of a British accent. His voice is suave and fluid like fine whisky, a smoky voice of textures and undertones, a voice that Hutch doesn’t expect to hear at all from a psychopathic criminal with a penchant for slit throats. “Please. Come, sit with me.”

Having no other choice, Hutch strides over to the table and sits down, facing the mob boss and his goon who’s giving him the stink eye with beady green eyes. He disregards it. He hears Callahan’s steps come to a stop behind and a bit to his left. Callahan makes no move to sit down.

“I’d rather _stand_ ,” Callahan growls, and even without glancing at the younger detective, Hutch knows that Callahan is sending the mob boss a glare lethal enough to disintegrate titanium if looks could kill.

In spite of the shadows, Hutch also knows that the man before him is smirking.

“Suit yourself, boy.”

And even without glancing at Callahan this time, Hutch knows that Callahan is bristling at the supercilious snub.

“To answer your question, Detective Hutchinson, yes, I am The Fin. Although I have no fear of also going by my real name, Lorcan Finlay.”

Hutch mentally jots down the name straightaway. He is unfamiliar with it, but is anticipative of learning more about Finlay by investigating it and searching it through the Metro’s computer system … if he gets out of this tête-à-tête unscathed.

"Living up to your name?"

Callahan’s tone abounds with disdain.

“Ah, you know your Irish, boy."

Hutch notes that a bit of Irish brogue had crept into Finlay’s accent when Finlay spoke to Callahan. It reminds him of Matt Coyle, the owner of fine food supplier, Coyle Provision, and the instigator of several protection scams and informer to the late Captain Mike Ferguson. Coyle’s Irish accent, however, is phony since he was born in Jersey. Finlay’s is real, but is being veiled with the sort of British accent Hutch would hear in British films, with flawless pronunciation and no distinct regional inflections. Is Finlay willfully speaking in a different accent to deceive people about his origins, like Coyle did?

Hutch watches Finlay lean back on the chair and steeple long fingers with neatly trimmed nails and, intriguingly, a gold band around the left ring finger. Is Finlay married? Or is the ring just an accessory worn to promote that notion?

"One can only wonder what my dear mother was thinking when she named me as such. Did she so desire a _cruel_ and _fierce_ son?" Finlay’s rumbling laugh is a disconcerting sound. "Well, she got her wish. And learned it firsthand."

Hutch stares at Finlay, only the slight widening of his eyes giving away his revulsion. Fucking hell, did the guy just confess to wounding, perhaps even _murdering_ his own _mother?_ What sort of _beast_ is he?

“I’ve been hearing _rumors_ about me as of late. Rumors involving a certain cop who was your _partner_ for nearly _eight years_ , Detective Hutchinson, but is now in the Narcotics department of the BCPD’s Metro division. Detective Sergeant David Michael Starsky, yes?”

Hutch says nothing and merely glowers at Finlay. So the bastard’s done his research. Or just fucking with him to see his reaction to the mention of Starsky’s name. Or both.

“You must be _dying_ to know if those rumors are _true_.”

A glint of light ricochets off a spot on the lower half of Finlay’s face. The _bastard_ is _smiling_ at him.

Hutch’s back goes ramrod straight, and strengthening his glower, he snarls, “Got a _thing_ for sending thugs to beat up _cops?_ ”

Finlay’s nonchalant reply dumbfounds him.

“No. That’s _boring_. What’s the point if they _know_ they’re only getting beaten and put up a _bold_ _front?_ ” Finlay shifts his legs so that he is sitting with his right leg crossed over his left. “I don’t send my men to beat up people. I send them to _finish_ people.”

In his stomach, Hutch feels an iceberg forming, an iceberg squashing the breath and warmth and _bravado_ out of his body. Finlay isn’t even bothering to honey-coat his smug statements of crime and slaughter. Is Finlay _that_ confident of evading the clutches of the law?

Or does the mob boss intend to slay them all after this conversation is over?

"Oh, yeah?” Hutch says with an outwardly intrepid voice. “Like using a _knife_ across the _throat_ , from ear to ear?"

The glint of light ricochets off Finlay’s face a second time. Then, Finlay sits up and leans forward, revealing his entire visage. Like the suit, Finlay’s hair is silver but of a lighter sheen, styled in a pompadour reminiscent of James Dean’s. Hutch is struck by the agelessness and attractiveness of Finlay’s face, for he had expected the man to be like Gunther, old and craggy and _monstrous_ , not Hollywood-handsome with heavy-lidded, steel blue-gray eyes, a Roman nose, high cheekbones and …

For one moment, rational thought flees from Hutch’s brain as it strives to work out what his eyes are seeing when Finlay’s smile transforms into an extensive, ghoulish grin. Finlay’s teeth, every single one that Hutch can see, have been filed down and sharpened to deadly points, just like the teeth of a –

“Do you know how a Great White shark hunts for its prey?”

Hutch has to dig his fingers into his thighs under the table to not flinch as Finlay blatantly examines his face.

“It lurks in the dark, out of sight. It stalks and circles its victim, watching, waiting, getting _close_ enough to see what its victim is doing. _Thinking_. Smelling the scent of its _blood_. Of its _life_.” Finlay angles his head to one side, his glacial eyes fixated on Hutch’s blue ones. “And when the moment comes, the moment to _attack_ and _kill_ , its victim never sees it coming. And the _pain_ , the _terror_ its victim feels as it’s being _ripped_ apart …” Finlay grins again. “Incredible.”

Finlay moves back into the shadows, lounging on the chair with an arrogant air.

“Slicing someone’s throat from ear to ear is the closest I’ll probably ever come to _killing_ like a Great White shark. The feel of the serrated blade _biting_ into flesh, and all that blood _spraying_ and _gushing_ _out_ as they struggle for their lives in vain … _incredible_.”

Hutch grits his teeth hard, a muscle in his lower jaw twitching. Finlay’s a beast, alright, a beast worse than an actual _animal_. Even Great White sharks only hunt for food, not for vile pleasure.

“You’re a _sick fucking bastard_ , that’s what you are.”

The goliath standing behind Finlay takes a step forward, growling deep in his throat. Finlay elevates one hand in an unambiguous signal.

“Het is oke, Hans. Laat Detective Hutchinson spreken zijn geest.”

The goliath, Hans, squints maliciously at Hutch. Hans’ hands have become formidable fists.

“Ik wil hem pijn doen, baas. Laat mij deed hem pijn.”

Hans’ voice is like the reverberation of a faraway earthquake. Hutch returns Hans’ glare, his whole body tensing, calculating how swift and far backwards he has to leap to dodge Hans’ fists. He doesn’t have a damn clue what the goon’s saying – it sounds like an European language, _Dutch_ maybe – but there’s no mistaking Hans’ malevolent intentions towards him.

Hutch presses his feet against the floor. His thighs harden, preparing to propel him up and away to safety.

Hans’ right foot begins to lift off the floor.

“ _Nee_ ,” Finlay states coolly.

Hans freezes instantaneously, as if that one word is akin to a blade jabbing him in the flesh underneath his lower jaw.

“ _Niemand_ doet hem pijn. _Begrijpen?_ ”

Whatever it is Finlay says to Hans, it motivates the gigantic thug into stepping backwards to his original position with nary a grumble, and Hutch loosens up and lays his hands flat on his thighs. Heh, Hans is giving him the stink eye again.

“As you can see, Hans doesn’t take kindly to anyone insulting me. Normally, I would let him _hurt_ you as he requested … but I am in a very good mood today, and I find your _portrayal_ of me to be rather amusing. A _sick bastard_ , you say?”

Finlay is tapping one foot on the floor in a steady rhythm.

“Did you know that one of the most significant reasons for humankind being what and where it is today is that some Homo species began to _eat meat?_ Before that, their diet was wholly vegetarian, and they were _small_ and _weak_. Their bodies and brains couldn’t _grow_ on their miserable diet and so they were stunted. They were _useless_. But all that changed the day they _killed_ and _feasted_ upon the _flesh_ of other creatures. Some even ate _others_ like themselves. And over the hundreds of thousands of years …” The tapping stopped. “They evolved into _us_.”

“So that’s your _excuse_ for being a sick bastard?” Hutch says with an ostensible indifference.

Finlay makes a _tsk-tsk_ sound with his tongue.

“Oh, Detective Hutchinson, perhaps I might have _overestimated_ your intelligence.”

Hutch maintains his blank expression, but inside, he is starting to seethe. He is getting _really_ bored of this guy. If all Finlay wanted to do was give him a _lecture_ on human evolution, Finlay should have just skipped the part of the plan that said ‘ _Go to The Pits with my thugs and threaten Huggy Bear and staff with torture and death unless Hutchinson shows up_ ’ and called him up himself rather than make Huggy do that at gunpoint.

Then again, if Huggy and his employees weren’t being held hostage to begin with, Hutch would have charged in here with a battalion of cops instead of coming only with Callahan in tow.

Sick fucking _cunning_ bastard Finlay.

“What I’m _saying_ is that we humans have _always_ thirsted for blood and hungered for living flesh. _Lusted_ for bloodshed and violence and death. Think of all the _wars_ that have come and gone on our Earth since time in memorial, of how _common_ it was for people to kill each other by the thousands, the _millions_ , simply because they _could_. Think of how common it still _is_. The two world wars, the Korean war, the war in Vietnam, just to name a few from this century.”

“The brutality of the _past_ doesn’t justify your _present_ actions.”

“Does the brutality of the _present_ serve that purpose, then?” Finlay shifts forward into the light once more. His lop-sided smirk is as unnerving as his grin. “You don’t mean to tell me that you actually _believe_ humankind is now _civilized_ and beyond the control of its _reptilian_ mind, do you? You, a _homicide_ detective!” Finlay lets out a malignant snicker. “We’re nothing more than _animals_ that wear clothes and live in concrete jungles and _hide_ under a false veneer of politeness, decorum and cleanliness. Hypocritical animals, trying so hard to pretend they don’t have the _stench_ of _death_.”

“Okay. You’ve made your point. But you’re _still_ a sick fucking bastard, no matter how many others out there are like you.”

“A matter of perspective, Detective Hutchinson, just a matter of perspective.” Finlay is examining his face again, as if he’s an insect on a microscope slide. “Speaking of sick fucking bastards like me, I should _thank_ you for getting rid of Gunther. Saved me the trouble of doing it myself.”

Hutch’s eyes narrow in antipathy. Oh, that’s just _great_ , his deed of vengeance on behalf of Starsky is now being twisted into a _favor_ done for a sadistic, screwy mob boss who thinks he’s a human shark. _Fuck_ that.

“I didn’t do it for _you_ ,” Hutch snarls, finally displaying emotion.

The smile Finlay has now is a closed-lipped one, but no less unsettling.

“No … not for me, no,” Finlay murmurs, and a chill weaves its way up Hutch’s spine at Finlay’s evocative tone. Just how much research _has_ Finlay done on him? On _Starsky?_ And _is_ Starsky on Finlay’s payroll after all?

Is that why Finlay set up this meeting, to personally behold his reaction to Starsky having become a dirty cop for such a pitiless, dangerous psychopath?

“It must be quite _frustrating_ , knowing that Gunther is alive and _well_ and being cared for with taxpayers’ money. _Your_ money.”

Hutch doesn’t take the bait.

"He'll spend the rest of his life in a six by eight prison cell. If some of _my_ money goes to _keeping_ him there, I have no problem with it,” he replies calmly.

“And if you were to, say, _hear_ of news of his _untimely death_ … how would you _feel_ about that?"

Finlay is subtly dragging his right thumb from one corner of his lower jaw to the other, across the throat.

Hutch stares at the silver-suited mob boss, motionless and taciturn. What is Finlay _playing_ at? What does Finlay stand to _profit_ from the demise of Gunther who’s incarcerated for life and therefore no longer a threat?

Finlay puts on an act of throwing up his hands, then says, “Ah, silly me. It would be _improper_ for a police man of your _gallant_ reputation to say anything _honest_ about such circumstances, wouldn’t it?”

Hutch remains taciturn, even when Finlay shocks him with what he says next.

“I _like_ you, Detective Hutchinson. You’re noble, _loyal_ to a fault and so _idealistic_ despite your _mask_ of cynicism and disinterest. It’s almost _touching_ , really, your belief that what you do is making the world a _better place_. But, as you said yourself, there are others like me, others like Gunther. There will _always_ be others like us, no matter how many of them you throw into jail.”

“If that was your best shot at persuading me to quit my job, it was pathetic.”

Finlay snorts in amusement.

“On the contrary, I hope you’ll be around for a _long_ time. It’s only a matter of time until someone else ascends to the throne Gunther forsook, and where would we all _be_ if you aren’t here to contend with its _successor?_ ”

"Let me guess. You're hoping it's _you_."

"Correction: I _know_ it will be me."

Hutch’s eyes taper into slits at that. Egotistical, patronizing _fucker_. Who the hell does Finlay _think_ he is?

Finlay lets out another acerbic snicker, then says, “Alright, _alright_ , I’ll put you out of your misery ... Detective Starsky is _not_ on my payroll. Not for lack of effort, though.”

If relief could embody itself physically, Hutch would have felt it as an excruciating wallop to his belly. As it is, it is an inner force so tremendous that it radiates through him from head to toe, leaving him shaken within.

Starsky _isn’t_ working for Finlay, which means Starsky _isn’t_ dirty like those goddamn rumors claimed.

Which means … Starsky has a different reason altogether for transferring out of Homicide and into Narco. But _what?_

“I know _every_ cop on my payroll,” Finlay adds. He grins over Hutch’s shoulder at Callahan who’s been silent all this while. “Oh _yes_ , there are _many_ cops under my thumb, and you have no _idea_ just how many of them are willing to do the _worst_ things for a mere bang and buck.” Finlay’s grin alters into a sneer. “Some of them have been willing to bow to me even for something as ridiculous as _love_.”

Hutch has to bite his tongue from sarcastically pointing out the ring on Finlay’s finger. If Finlay really is married, may all the deities have mercy on the poor woman chained to him … unless she’s as _evil_ as he is. What sane woman can stand to be wedded to a man like _Finlay?_

And who in the right mind would kowtow to Finlay and turn into a dirty cop for the sake of _love?_

“Everyone has a price, Detective Hutchinson. I wonder what _yours_ is.” Finlay is staring at his face and smiling that disturbing, closed-lipped smile once more. “No, it’s not money. Gunther would have bought you out from the start if it was money. _Women?_ Hmm … no, I don’t think so, not if your wretched lack of contact lately with your girlfriend is anything to go by.”

Hutch’s breath snags in his throat. Finlay’s been _spying_ on him? And _Stacey?_ For how long?

He’s been through enough hell during his service as a cop to be extra vigilant on the road, and he’d never noticed any cars tailing his LTD. Never noticed anyone tailing him while he was on dates with Stacey either … but someone _must_ have, for Finlay to know that much about the status of his relationship with Stacey.

“If you _do_ anything to her, I _swear_ –“

“Oh, come off it,” Finlay cuts in, smirking as if Hutch’s warning is just a joke. “I’m not going to waste my time on _her_. She’s not the one to whom you’re _truly_ committed, is she?”

Hutch doesn’t answer that. He hopes the blood hasn’t drained completely from his face, or Finlay’s going to know for _sure_ that he’s hit the nail on the head, that Starsky is his true Achilles’ heel. His _price_.

Ironically, Hans is the reason he is spared from being psychologically dissected by Finlay any further.

“Baas, je ontmoeting met de kapitein.”

Finlay stares at him a little while longer, then turns his head to the side in Hans’ direction.

“ _Ah_ , yes, of course. Thank you for the reminder, Hans. How time flies when you’re having _fun_ , hm?”

Hans steps forward to deftly pull back the chair as Finlay stands up. Finlay’s movements are nimble, belying the impression of old age due to his silver hair. Hutch stands up as well, but not out of respect. He is _not_ going to give Finlay the satisfaction of physically looking down at him when the mob boss has already done that verbally in spades. He stands beside Callahan, solaced by the younger detective’s contemptuous glare towards Finlay. Good, Callahan isn’t letting Finlay daunt him either.

“I enjoyed our conversation very much, Detective Hutchinson. It was indeed a _pleasure_ to meet you,” Finlay says, walking up to him and looking him straight in the eye. Then, turning towards Callahan, Finlay says in a lower tone, “As for _you_ , boy –“

"The name's _Joseph Callahan_."

“Callahan … O Ceallachain. A _strong_ name, derived from Ceallachan of Cashel, the king of Munster in the tenth century.” There is a glimmer in Finlay’s eyes now, the sort Hutch has seen many times in the eyes of criminals who see him and Starsky as mortal foes. “I will remember it.”

Callahan doesn’t shrink back at all as Finlay invades his personal space, until there is less than two inches of space between their noses.

“Beidh muid ag bualadh le chéile arís, _Callahan_.”

“Líon ar sé,” Callahan replies through his teeth, and Hutch sees the glimmer in Finlay’s eyes magnify into something treacherous, something _predatory_. Something he’d seen before, in Gunther’s eyes as he and Gunther had stared each other down in the old crook’s extravagant study.

The white knight confronting his dragon. His destiny.

“Wij vertrekken.”

At Finlay’s command, the goon keeping his gun trained on Huggy and the others backs away from them while Finlay, defended by Hans from behind, saunters away cavalierly from Hutch and Callahan towards the main entrance of The Pits without so much as a glance back. Hans growls at Hutch as he passes them, and Hutch has to hold onto Callahan’s right wrist to prevent the younger man from doing something very reckless. If Hans could deck T-Bone with one punch, there’s no telling what will be left of Callahan’s face once the goliath is through with it.

No one moves or says a word until the doors of The Pits slam shut in the mobsters’ wake.

At that instant, T-Bone jolts awake, rearing up like a tsunami but lacking the ocean’s grace in his writhing and bellowing. Anita and Rosalia are startled and cringe from T-Bone’s flailing arms while Gene, wedged between the bar and the waitresses, can only peer over their shoulders as Huggy darts to the big man’s side.

“Be cool, brotha,” Huggy says, pacifying the flustered, semi-conscious man with a squeeze to the back of the neck. “They’re gone … they’re gone.”

“Mr. Bear? I – I tried to … I failed … Sorry, Mr. Bear.”

T-Bone’s words are slurred. His head is lolling although he’s now standing still, supported on either side by Huggy and Callahan who’d hurried to the bar to lend a helping hand. A trickle of blood is winding its way from split lips down to his chin.

“It’s not your fault, man. That dude ain’t _human_.”

With assistance, T-Bone manages to stagger from the bar to a chair nearby and collapse onto it. Hutch is concerned by T-Bone’s disorientation and stupor.

“He might have a concussion,” he says to Huggy who is now standing opposite him, to T-Bone’s left. “We should bring him to a hospital.”

“No … no, Mr. Hutch, I’m good … Had concussions before. Don’t have one.”

The bar and bistro brightens as someone switches on all the ceiling lamps. Hutch raises T-Bone’s head into the light to look into the man’s brown eyes, and he sees that both pupils are the same size.

“Your pupils aren’t dilated, but you’re showing other symptoms of a concussion.”

“I’m good, Mr. Hutch, I am … Just gotta get my wind back.” T-Bone is rubbing the left side of his face, grimacing. “Last time I met a guy who could punch me out … I was seventeen … an amateur boxer.”

“Been a while, huh?” Hutch says, smiling softly, and T-Bone chuckles and replies, “Yeah … won’t mind facing that _gorilla_ again … in a boxing ring, fair and square. He played dirty. Attacked me from behind.”

Anita appears with a damp cloth in hand and bends down to dab at T-Bone’s split lips and bloody chin.

“Thanks, Anita. Feels better,” T-Bone murmurs, sitting docilely with his eyes closed.

Hutch turns his head to glance at Callahan standing next to him, to his right. Callahan has his black notebook out and is feverishly scrawling notes on it with a pen. Hutch smiles at this. Then, expression more solemn, he asks, “What did Finlay say to you?”

Callahan concludes whatever he’s writing and puts the notepad and pen back in his suit jacket’s inner pocket.

“He was speaking Irish Gaelic. He said we’ll meet again.”

“Threat?”

“More like a _promise_.”

Hutch gazes at Callahan’s face for an instant, then says, “Where’d you learn to speak _Irish Gaelic?_ ”

Callahan smiles and replies, “I’m a second-generation American. My grandparents were from Dublin. They learned it from their parents who were from the Iveragh Peninsula in southwestern Ireland. They taught me to speak it since I was a baby.”

“That means you’ve got one up on me in the language department. You can speak two languages _fluently_.”

Callahan’s smile becomes an amused smirk.

“You still got the big trophy where it counts, though. I’ve yet to cuff a criminal of Gunther’s rank.”

 _You just might, one day_ , Hutch almost says, recalling the showdown of glares between Callahan and Finlay, but he doesn’t. The _last_ person who deserves to be The Fin’s target for assassination is Callahan, and Callahan going after Finlay like some _prize_ is guaranteed to make that nightmare a reality.

“I owe you another one, Hutch.”

Huggy has ambled over to stand in front of them, and has one hand on Hutch’s left shoulder. Hutch places his hand on Huggy’s upper arm and pats it.

“Friends don’t owe each other anything,” he says, and he and Huggy smile at each other, relieved that they have survived yet another dire situation and come out of it intact.

Huggy then turns to Callahan, offering his right hand for a handshake.

“Huggy Bear, owner of this _fine_ establishment and this blond turkey’s _savior_ on more than a _few_ occasions,” Huggy says, still smiling, and Callahan laughs, his blue eyes crinkling. “I wish we didn’t have to meet under such a _stressed_ state of affairs, but sometimes life doesn’t give you what you want.”

“Joey Callahan. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bear,” Callahan says, shaking Huggy’s hand.

“Call me Huggy. All my friends do.” Huggy’s smile becomes one tinged with gratefulness. “Thanks for coming here with Hutch. I’m gonna guess he told you he had to come here _alone_ and told you to stay _put?_ ”

Grinning, Callahan nods and says, “You know him really well.”

“Indeed I do. He’s noble and loyal to a fault … just like _he_ said.” Huggy’s smile fades. “Man, I thought we were all gonna _die_ today. It seemed like any other day until _he_ showed up with his goons out of nowhere. That big dude, he was _fast_ for his size, so fast none of us saw him coming before he _dropped_ T-Bone like a sack of potatoes.”

“Sorry, Mr. Bear.”

T-Bone now has an ice pack pressed to his bulging left cheek. The giant man seems to be more alert and stable.

“Like I said, it’s not your fault,” Huggy says, patting T-Bone’s right shoulder. “I’m glad you’re okay. And I’m glad they didn’t do anything else to us.”

“After what you told me about The Fin, I wasn’t about to risk anything or _anyone_ ,” Hutch murmurs.

“I know. I think he knew that too. Might be the only reason he held us hostage rather than shoot us _dead_.”

“Hutch,” Callahan says, “do you think he was telling you the truth? About Starsky?”

Hutch and Huggy glance at the younger detective. Hutch nibbles on his lower lip as he ponders on the questions.

“Yeah ... I believe he was. I don’t think he set up this meeting just to _lie_ to my face. What he said about himself, about the … _killing_ , he _enjoyed_ telling us all that. He was _proud_ of it, and he wanted us to _know_ it.”

“Hearing it straight from his mouth was _something_ else,” Huggy says, his expression fearful.

“Still, he had no reason, no _gain_ in telling us that Starsky isn’t on his payroll,” Callahan says. “So why’d he do it? Why’d he go to all this trouble, just to tell us that in person?”

“Maybe he wanted to see if he could establish a line of _communication_ with Hutch,” Huggy replies. “Maybe he wants to earn Hutch’s _trust_.”

Hutch snorts and says adamantly, “Like _hell_ I’ll ever work for him.”

“Hutch, you heard what he said.” Huggy is gazing pointedly at him. “Some of the cops on his payroll, they’re not on it for money or power. They’re on it for _love_.”

Hutch gazes back at Huggy, into Huggy’s large eyes but in his mind, he is seeing another pair of large eyes on another very familiar face. Large blue eyes with lush, dark eyelashes that had once often grazed the side of his neck in the night, after bouts of lovemaking in his canal cottage. Starsky had always nuzzled his neck, as if Starsky needed to feel the beating of his heart against his cheek, even in slumber.

Starsky. His friend, his best friend who is still his big-hearted, honorable self, after all.

“What are you saying?” Hutch asks, his tone cool and not accusatory.

“The Fin was _right_ about one thing, Hutch. _Everyone_ has a price.”

Hutch looks away from Huggy to the floor, sensing Callahan’s and Huggy’s eyes on him. No, _no way_ will he ever work for Finlay, or any other mob boss in town. Starsky would never forgive him for it. Their working relationship – much less their _friendship_ – would never have endured such betrayal of their principles. No way will he ever go dirty, not even if –

Suddenly, Hutch is seeing Starsky standing before him, surrounded by darkness. Starsky’s eyes are bleak with fright, begging him for rescue. The muzzle of a revolver is pushing against Starsky’s right temple, held there by a man in a silver suit, and when the hammer of the revolver is pulled back, the resounding click causes Starsky’s eyes to widen, till the whites around the blue irises are visible.

_Hutch, help me. Please._

Hutch’s hands tighten into fists of frustration.

 _Would_ he be willing to turn into a dirty cop, if Starsky’s _life_ is at stake?

His knee-jerk answer to that question petrifies him.

“Everyone has a price. Even you,” Huggy says, placing a hand on his left shoulder again. “Be careful, my friend. Watch your step. The Fin’s gotten a _taste_ of you now.”

The distressing imagery of Starsky’s head exploding from a bullet haunts Hutch for the rest of the day, and it evidently shows on his face for Minnie asks him if he’s alright after he gives her Finlay’s full name and description at the Computer Center. He smiles at her and swears that he’s okay, and it convinces her for now. Callahan isn’t as easily misled but doesn’t inquire Hutch for details on what’s upsetting him. Callahan is pensive throughout the afternoon too, preoccupied like he is with paperwork that doesn’t seem to ever _stop_.

That evening, both of them return to Mount Sinai to see how Simmons is doing. Simmons is being bolstered by pillows into a sitting position on the bed. He’s just had dinner, hospital food on a tray that’s still on the over-bed table. He greets them with a wave of his right hand and a skewed smile. Babcock is sitting at his partner’s bedside, in a different set of clothes from this morning. Babcock must have gone home at some point. He gives them a nod of greeting as they walk up to Simmons’ bedside on the left.

Hutch sits on the edge of the bed, near Simmons’ right thigh, while Callahan stands beside him. After some small talk, Simmons and Babcock are astounded into silence by Hutch’s recounting of his meeting with The Fin earlier today. Their expressions are dour by the end.

“ _Lorcan Finlay_ , huh?” Babcock mutters. His arms are folded over his chest, his shoulders hunched. “Never heard the name.”

“Me neither,” Simmons says. His voice is somewhat distorted by his swelled-up cheeks and lips. The contusions all over Simmons’ face are now magnificent shades of purple and blue-black. “What a _sick bastard_.”

“That’s what _I_ said,” Hutch says, smirking. His smirk then vanishes as he adds, “Unlucky for us, he also happens to be a damn wealthy, _educated_ bastard who speaks at least three languages fluently.”

“You believe him, Hutch? That he wasn’t responsible for _this?_ ” Babcock asks, angling his head at Simmons.

Hutch exchanges glances with Callahan, then asks Simmons, “What did the thugs who beat you look like? How tall and _big_ were they?”

“Uh …” Simmons scratches his upper left arm, just above the cast wrapping his forearm. “Kinda like me and Babs, I guess. Regular guys.”

“Did any of them speak Dutch?” Callahan asks, and both Simmons and Babcock give him looks of astonishment.

“ _Dutch?_ No, English.”

“Any foreign accents?” Hutch says.

“No. American. I’m sure of it.”

Hutch and Callahan exchange glances again.

“So, definitely not Finlay’s men then,” Hutch says to Callahan, and the younger detective replies, “Unless only his personal bodyguards speak Dutch.”

“You said Finlay said he doesn’t ever send goons out to beat people up, right?” Babcock says to Hutch, frowning. “You believe him on that too?”

“Yeah. I do. I think if Finlay _had_ sent his goons after Simmons, he’d be _dead_ now. Finlay wallows in suffering and _killing_. It isn’t enough for him to just _hurt_ someone.”

Hutch smiles to himself when Babcock extends one hand to lay it on Simmons’ left upper arm. It’s a very unexpected demonstration of affection from Babcock for his partner, but Hutch doesn’t comment on it. For all of Babcock’s supposedly disparaging remarks in public towards Simmons and their constant squabbling, there’s no denying Babcock’s faithfulness to Simmons.

Hutch relates to that faithfulness very well.

“He’s one scary sonofabitch, huh?” Babcock says, more subdued now.

“I haven’t been that creeped out by somebody in a _long_ time,” Callahan says, and Hutch glances at him and says, “You sure didn’t show it.”

“Can’t afford to. Men like Finlay, they’re like … _sharks_. You let them smell your fear, it’s like smelling _blood_ to them. They’ll mark you as a victim and hunt you down, and they won’t stop until they’ve _destroyed_ you.”

Hutch nods in response. Wise words, born from hard-hitting experience.

“You know what?” Simmons says. “The crazy bastard’s got a _code of honor_ , man. Like _The Godfather_.”

“How so?” Hutch asks.

“That thing about Gunther… I think he really _does_ see it as a favor. In his sick mind, maybe he sees murdering Gunther as a way of _repaying_ you for taking out the _competition_. Like, eye for an eye kinda thing.”

Hutch rubs his eyes with a thumb and forefinger.

“ _Jesus_. Like I need an _insane_ mobster who thinks I’m his _pal_.”

“Hey, Hutch, why don’t ya tell him to clean up this whole mess for you, since he _likes_ you so much?” Simmons jests, and the four detectives snicker at the preposterous thought. The humor uplifts the atmosphere in the room, and Babcock’s posture is considerably less tense as he taps Simmons on the leg and says, “I told them about the Narco mole.”

“Oh, yeah, _yeah_ , the mole.” Simmons taps Hutch’s forearm in turn. “One of my _birdies_ chirped to me that an _old-timer_ in Narco’s been a dirty cop for years.”

“And now we know for sure Starsky’s clean and not a mole,” Babcock says.

“How legit is your informer?” Hutch asks.

“Very. He’s always come through for me and Babs. He hasn’t given me bad intel yet.”

Hutch doesn’t ask for the name of the informer. The resilience of a rapport between a cop and his snitch relies substantially on trust and secrecy. A cop who dishes the dirt on his snitches won’t have them as sources for long.

“Did he tell you how long exactly this Narco old-timer’s been dirty?”

“About two to three years. Feeding info to one of the really big guns on drug raids and such. But that’s all he knows so far.”

“D’Amato, you think?”

“I dunno, Hutch. We’ve eliminated Starsky from the list of suspects, but we still don’t have enough to pin D’Amato as the mole my birdie chirped about. _If_ he’s the one. Lots of the cops in Narco have worked there for more than three years.”

“He _smells_ dirty to me,” Babcock mutters, and Simmons sniggers and says, “Yeah, he must rub a _gallon_ of _stinky wax_ into his hair to make it look like a _helmet_.”

Babcock then says to Hutch and Callahan, “Anyways, Sims will be out of the hospital tomorrow morning. Doctor said there’s nothing more to be done for him here. Just painkillers and lots of rest. Dobey’s relegated us both to desk duty until he recovers. Told me to keep an eye on him at home, and that a patrol car will be assigned to my street.”

“Dobey’s taking this very seriously,” Callahan says.

“Yeah,” Simmons says, smiling as much as he can with his battered face. “The Cap’s always looked out for his men.”

After a minute of comfortable hush, Hutch asks, “Simmons … what did you tell Dobey about the attack?”

Simmons sends Hutch a meditative gaze before replying, “I didn’t tell him what the goon said to me about Starsky, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Hutch glances at a spot on the wall near Simmons’ head and murmurs, “I don’t know whether to talk to Dobey about Starsky or not.”

Babcock scratches the side of his head while Callahan remains standing, quiet. Simmons eventually says, “Starsky may not be in Homicide anymore, but he’s still one of us. Dobey isn’t gonna hang him out to dry just ‘cause he’s in Narco now.”

Hutch runs one hand from the crown of his head and down to the nape of his neck, and sighs.

“Finlay’s thug, the really big one, I think he was telling Finlay they had to meet someone. He said something like … _kapitein_. I think it’s _captain_ in Dutch.”

All three men are staring at Hutch now.

“Hutch …” Simmons mumbles. “You don’t think _Dobey’s_ –“

“No, I know Dobey’s not dirty, but he might be _friends_ with a captain who’s dirty and not know it. I just … I don’t know if telling him about Starsky and _Finlay_ will put him in Finlay’s sights.”

Simmons nods in understanding.

“Wouldn’t be the first time Dobey’s been a target. But Finlay’s a whole other breed of _nastiness_ , huh?”

“Yeah,” Hutch says, thinking about Dobey’s wonderful wife, Edith, and their two children, adorable, little Rosie and mature, dependable Cal. He can still recollect Edith’s panicked scream as he jumped out of the Torino in front of the Dobey residence and sprinted to her to hug her and calm her down, years ago. A masked thug had attempted to break into her home in the middle of the night, and if it hadn’t been for Dobey insisting that a loaded gun be kept in the house, that thug might have very well murdered Edith and the kids.

To put the Dobey family through something like that again, at the hands of even more brutal thugs, thugs who won’t rest until their victims are _dead_ … Hutch is aghast just thinking about it.

“So since Starsky _isn’t_ dirty and working for Finlay, who’s spreading that _bullshit_ about him?” Hutch asks. “And _why?_ ”

“And who’s the _real_ asshole behind the attack on Sims and those other cops?” Babcock growls.

“That, too,” Hutch says. “It’s not Finlay, that much we know now. It’s _got_ to be same person who’s behind the rumors. Somebody who wants to set Starsky up, like Simmons said. Somebody who wants to set _Finlay_ up as well.”

Simmons nods then says, “None of my birdies had anything _concrete_ to tell me about the Starsky business. They just said one minute, the streets had nothing on Starsky and then the next, _everybody_ was talking about him. My birdies heard the word from other birdies and they claimed _they_ heard from other birdies –“

“And _they_ heard it from _other_ birdies, right?”

“Yeah. It’s like that _telephone_ game, except the line’s so _long_ now that the source of the call’s become _untraceable_.”

“Or hiding in plain sight,” Callahan says. The other three detectives look at him. “At first, Hutch and I thought maybe it was a _cop_ who started talking about Starsky, like a _personal vendetta_ or something. But now, it sounds to me like _snitches_ were the ones who did. Who’s to say some of them weren’t _paid_ to spread the rumors about him? At least _one_ of them has gotta know the mastermind.”

“Callahan, do you know how many snitches there _are_ on the streets?” Babcock says. “You talking about shaking down _all_ of them?”

Callahan shrugs and replies, “It’s either that, or we wait till Starsky comes back from his undercover job. Who knows how long that could be, or what Finlay intends to do about the situation.”

Simmons sinks into the pillows propping him up. Fatigue is beginning to manifest itself on Simmons’ face and in his slouched pose.

“You guys can’t do this alone,” he murmurs to Hutch and Callahan, his eyes shut. “This is getting bigger than all of us. You gotta talk to Dobey. You can trust him.”

Hutch stands up and pats Simmons’ right arm.

“I know. And I will.”

Once Simmons falls asleep, Hutch says to Babcock, “Let me know when you bring him to your house, okay?”

“Sure thing.” Babcock then shakes his head and smirks to himself. “I almost feel _sorry_ for the asshole behind all this.”

“Why’s that?” Hutch asks, surprised.

Babcock glances at his face, eyebrows shooting up.

“Would _you_ piss off a guy like _The Fin_ by talking shit about him? Only somebody with a _death wish_ would do something like that.”

“Or somebody with nothing to lose anymore,” Callahan says, and Babcock nods in agreement.

The stroll to Callahan’s Chevelle Malibu in the hospital’s car park in front of the North Tower is a contemplative one. Hutch is rattled by the déjà vu of Babcock and Callahan unsuspectingly repeating what he and Huggy had said to each other about Starsky last night. (God, just _last_ night!) For a couple of minutes there, he’d had the appalling theory that _Starsky_ is the one who’d purposely started the rumors just so Finlay would track him down and _slay_ him … but that’s total _lunacy_.

If Starsky _really_ has a death wish, all he has to do is take his _gun_ and point it at his temple and –

Hutch presses one hand over his lips, unable to complete the dismaying idea.

Too many pieces of the puzzle are still missing. Too many _gaps_ to make all the wrong assumptions.

Hutch and Callahan say nothing to each other as they get into the car, or as the car departs from the hospital’s car park and heads onto La Cienega Boulevard. It is when they’re on the Santa Monica Freeway and halfway to Hutch’s apartment that Callahan finally speaks and breaks the silence.

“Finlay really is like a shark.”

Hutch looks at Callahan, at the other man’s handsome profile.

“And I don’t mean just his _teeth_. I think Huggy was right, that Finlay wanted to meet you today to check you out way more than tell you about Starsky.”

Hutch doesn’t say anything to that. He’s spooked as it is that a psycho like Finlay is fascinated with him.

“Even the way he checked you out today was how a shark would do it. See, unless a shark’s very sure that its targeted victim is one of its preferred _food_ , it doesn’t automatically go in for the kill.”

His interest piqued, Hutch asks, “So what _does_ it do?”

“It gives the victim a _test bite_. A non-fatal bite to see if you’re food or foe. And if it deems you to be food, it’ll return and launch its full attack then.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Callahan smirks, his blue eyes gazing out through the windshield as he maneuvers the car to a different lane.

“That means either you taste awful … or it’s _scared_ of you.”

“You think Finlay might be _scared_ of me?”

“You’re the guy who took down _Gunther_. He spoke to you today like an _equal_.”

Hearing that ought to assuage Hutch, but it doesn’t. The last time he had such a nemesis, Starsky almost _died_. He doesn’t want Starsky to ever go through such travail again. He doesn’t want Starsky to ever _hurt_ like that again.

“I’d rather he never knew Starsky and I exist.”

“Yeah. What was it Huggy said?”

“Sometimes life just doesn’t give you what you want,” Hutch murmurs, reading Callahan’s sequence of thoughts seamlessly.

That night, Hutch dreams of drifting in a vast, arctic sea, a sea from melted snow and ice that is pure darkness as far as his eyes can see. There are voracious beasts in the waters with him, gliding past him in the murkiness, circling him. Watching. Waiting. Smelling the scent of his blood. He kicks his legs desperately, toiling his way up to the surface but there is no surface to breach, just darkness everywhere … and the glint of light reflecting off sharp teeth bared in ravenous grins.

Something silver, silver and coarse and _immense_ , bumps into him. He sees teeth, enormous sharp teeth charging at him and icy water is flooding his mouth, throat and lungs and just when the teeth are about to bite him, to _consume_ him, there is an extraordinary eruption of light.

He sees wings, lustrous, luridly colorful wings that stretch far above the receding darkness, above beasts abruptly puny in their radiance. He sees a halo of thick, dark, curls and big blue eyes, eyes that gaze upon with all the love in the universe, and he senses strong, muscular arms encasing him, sheltering him from the retreating beasts turned spineless.

A fallen angel, come to deliver him from iniquity, like the days of old.

When the first rays of sunlight streak across Hutch’s face through his curtains, they find him in a tranquil sleep. Warm, safe, and cocooned in a luridly colorful Falsa blanket, with a small smile upon his lips.

 

& & & & & &

 

In his hand is Stacey’s key to his apartment. It’s a golden key, with the initials ‘VP’ inscribed onto its clover-shaped bow. He’d had it made years ago, after Diana Harmon –  a mentally unbalanced nurse with whom he had a one night stand – attempted to stab him to death in his own apartment. He’d never left his house key on the ledge above the front door again, and all his girlfriends since Diana had received this golden key for safekeeping for the duration of the relationship.

It’s a golden key, two-and-a-half inches long, and right now, it has the weight of the entire world and all its farewells in its tiny form.

“Do you know that you’ve never told me you love me?”

Stacey is standing before him in his living room, next to his sofa, in a cream-colored turtleneck, jeans and an elegant wool winter coat. She is hugging herself, her hands clinging to her upper arms, her shoulders drooping. Her big blue eyes are gazing into his, and they are filled with resignation, with acceptance of the end. Her voice is faint, unchallenging. Forgiving.

It makes Hutch hate himself with every fiber of his being.

“Stacey, of _course_ I –“

"Do you know how many times you've told me you love David?"

Hutch’s hand clenches around the key. He lowers his eyes, clueless as to how to respond to her incisive question said with the same forbearing tone.

“You don’t say it _outright_ … but you don’t have to. When you talk about him, you … _glow_. Like the _sun_. You come _alive_ every time you talk about him. And when you don’t, it’s as if … you’re asleep. _Hibernating_ , until you say his name again.”

Hutch yearns to touch her cheek, her dark, curly hair. He yearns to embrace her, to tell her that that’s all in the past, that Starsky’s gone from his life and that he really does love her and want her to be the future Mrs. Hutchinson. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Not when it means feeding her lies, lies that she doesn’t deserve at all.

“I never had a chance, did I?”

Her smile of profound sadness burns him. Burns and melts some of the ice within him, and the water seeps into his eyes, turning hot and stinging.

“Stacey, _please_ , it’s not like that –“

“Ken, now, of all times, please be honest with me.”

Hutch swallows hard. Then, his lips curve up in a wavering smile, and he gives her a jerky nod.

“I – I really wanted to be with you. I really meant it when I said I was seriously considering marriage with you. About settling down with you.”

“Past tense,” Stacey murmurs, still smiling that smile of profound sadness.

Hutch blinks a few times. His vision clears, but only a little.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, unbearably aware of how inadequate his apology is.

“Don’t be. I’m glad I got to know you. I’m glad for the time we spent together.” She quickly wipes at her eyes, brushing the skin beneath them with the pads of her fingers. “Sometimes, you can’t help falling in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same way.”

Hutch gazes down at the key in his hand a second time. This golden thing, this tiny golden thing, has come to signify loneliness for him now. After tonight, it will never be passed into the hand of a woman again. He’s going to break it, hammer it to dust if he has to, until there is nothing left of it.

He’s tired. Tired of it all.

“Sometimes I wish people _can_ help it,” he whispers, and he and Stacey are able to share a smile, one last heartfelt smile.

“I know you cared about me. That you still do. I will always remember that.” She strokes his cheek with her right hand, once. “I know you still care very much for David, too, even though you aren’t partners with him anymore. Don’t give up on him. He's hurting inside. More than you know."

Hutch says nothing, his sight hazy, his throat prickly and his tongue frozen. Something inside him throbs terribly when he looks at her, something that craves to leave its foreboding, desolate fortress of ice and its inert lands of permafrost. Something that knows there’s no turning back. That this is the end.

“Goodbye, Ken.”

He shuts his eyes when she kisses him on the lips, for the last time. He doesn’t watch her leave. He lets the key plummet from his hand to floor, unconcerned where it lands.

Minutes, perhaps hours or even a whole lifetime later, he shuffles to his greenhouse on the patio, wearing just his robe and slippers. It’s a tepid night for winter, with scarcely a breeze. He wonders whether those mysterious droplets of water are going to materialize onto the leaves and petals of his flowers and plants tonight, but he sees none as he greets the iridescent denizens of his garden with gentle murmurs and pettings.

There’s Harold, his Giant Saguaro cactus in the left corner, and there’s his Yellow King Humbert Canna lily with its yellow-and-red-spotted flower clusters, Lillian, next to it. There’s his shrub of evergreen, pink Hydrangeas with their large pom-pom flower heads, Minnie, near the bench in the center of the greenhouse, and there’s Gillian, his tropical Red Mussaenda shrub, in the other corner, and his pots of white, pink and scarlet begonias, Rosie, Calvin, Edith, Joseph, Daniel, Kevin and Bart.

The flower he carries with him to the bench, however, is a Golden Yellow Cymbidium orchid, two long stems of it arranged reverently in a blue vase with gold speckles. Its sprigs of large flowers with broad, waxy gilded petals seem to shimmer under the hanging lamp of the patio. It’s his most favorite flower of all, for it had been a gift to him by someone whose doctors had been so certain would never return to active duty as a police officer again.

_It’s a golden beauty, just like you, Blondie._

With the vase secure between his thighs, Hutch strokes the orchid’s petals, smiling tenderly at it.

“Hi, Michael. How have you been?”

He bends his head down and sniffs its citrus and vanilla scent. It’s invigorating, so much like the scent of its namesake.

“I see you’re growing really well. I was afraid for a while there that I haven’t been watering you enough. Work has been _overwhelming_ for the past three days, not to mention what happened to Simmons earlier this week, and that business with Finlay. And the latest case Joey and I had to deal with, a burnt down house with a corpse in it.”

He leaves his nose nestled in the petals, and stares at the ceramic tiles of the floor through half-lidded eyes.

“It never seems to stop, you know? All this violence, this _death_. I put one criminal behind bars, and _ten_ more seem to pop up to replace him. I thought putting Gunther behind bars would, I don’t know, _do_ something _good_ , and instead … there’s _Finlay_. And who knows how many other _fucked up_ guys like him are out there, just waiting to grab a piece of the pie for themselves. I don’t … I don’t know if it’s worth fighting anymore, when it just never seems to _stop_.”

Hutch sighs.

“I’m – I’m happy for Stacey. I’m _happy_ that she’s moving on, that she’s not stuck with a _crazy_ guy like me. Yeah, sure, I’m not hearing those _voices_ in my head anymore, but look at me, I’m talking to a _plant_. Good thing I never told her about them, huh?”

Predictably, Michael doesn’t say or do anything in reply.

“She’ll find someone better. Someone who’ll love her for her, and not because she reminds him of somebody else. Somebody he still loves. Always will.”

Hutch has to swallow down a lump in his throat before speaking again.

“I think I’ve finally figured it out, why I like surrounding myself with greenery so much. It’s not just the _therapy_ I had with Aunt Lil. I told you about that, right? About how she used to encourage me to just _talk_ and let out all the _bad stuff_ inside before it festered and _infected_ me. I think her advice saved my _life_ back then. Really. She always had the best advice, and – and I _forgot_. I locked it all up inside me. Inside all that _ice_. I thought maybe … maybe I could _freeze_ everything and that would make everything better, because when you’re _numb_ , you’re not supposed to _feel_ anything, right? And not feeling anything’s supposed to make you _stronger_ , right?”

Hutch rubs one cheek against the yellow petals.

“But you know what I also forgot? I forgot that you can’t _grow_ anything in ice. You can kill all the _bad_ feelings … but you can’t grow any _good_ ones either, and even when you _try_ , sooner or later it just … dies. So I surround myself with life. Because nothing can grow in the _cold_ inside me.”

Hutch sighs again, then closes his eyes. A few minutes of silence pass with no movement from him.

Then, almost inaudibly, he says, “I miss him. I miss him so damn much. He’s the very first thing I think about when I wake up. The last thing I think about before I go to sleep. I even see him in my dreams, walking up to me, saying hello. Smiling at me. And when that happens, I don’t want to wake up. I want to stay asleep forever, if it means he’s with me again and he … and he still … loves me.”

More minutes of silence pass, fragmented now and then by the distant noises of vehicles zooming up and down the road in front of Venice Place.

“I don’t know what to make of all the things Huggy told me, about Starsky. He’s _not_ working for Finlay, which means something else is bothering him, something so bad that it’s making him _damage_ himself like he is, making him act like there’s nothing to _live_ for anymore, and I don’t know what it is. Something so bad that he can’t even share it with _me_ … that he _left_ me rather than tell me about it. So that means … it _must_ be something about _me_.”

Hutch straightens up and gazes down at the orchid once more, tracing one petal with a forefinger.

“Huggy’s right … it doesn’t make _sense_ anymore if I assume he ended our partnership because he hates me. But how does it make any more sense to think that he ended our partnership because he _loves_ me? You’d want to stay _close_ to the one you love, right? You’d want to be with them all the time, spend time with them, _do_ things with them and … and …”

And even as his eyes stare at golden flowers, Hutch is seeing Starsky in a white t-shirt and white khaki shorts, racing towards him across white gold sand and laughing and seizing his hand. Starsky is telling him that it’s a perfect morning for a run, that the waters are fine and that they should make the most of it while the beach is still theirs alone and Hutch is happy, so happy that after all the months of an extra-tetchy, morose, antagonistic Starsky, his old Starsky – his _beloved_ Starsky – is back. An equally happy Starsky, towing him along by hand across the sand, laughing some more, laughing with him as they run with the wind like the amazing horses his parents had once trained, fed and sheltered on their farm. They run, straight into cooling, salty waves where they splash seawater at each other and hop on each other until they topple into the water, swept off their feet by huge waves.

_Do you know your hair shines like gold in sunlight, Hutch?_

They’re sprawled on the sand now, catching their breath. Water is dripping off Starsky’s nose, chin and hair onto his face and neck. Starsky’s face is shadowed by the sun behind, but Hutch guesses from the bunching of Starsky’s cheeks that Starsky is smiling at him. He says something tongue-in-cheek about Starsky needing an off switch for his corny romantic lines, and Starsky draws away, not just physically but emotionally as well.

Hutch shifts onto his elbows to better look at Starsky’s face. It’s still shadowed. Sphinx-like.

_You thought about what kinda ring you’re gonna get your lady?_

Starsky’s mumbled question bowls Hutch over. It slashes like a blade, rending a hole in the fabric of their private world where it’s just them, them and no one else. He tells Starsky that there’s no plan to buy a ring for Stacey, that he hasn’t even _thought_ about proposing to her … and there’s that smile on Starsky’s lips again, that smile that makes Hutch feel as if someone has just walked over his grave, over the grave of his friendship with Starsky. He sits up and vehemently reiterates his answer, that no, he’s _not_ going to buy a ring and _no_ , he’s not going to propose to Stacey, not _yet_ anyway and –

“No … it can’t be,” Hutch whispers in the present, to himself, to the Golden Yellow Cymbidium orchid in his clasp. “Did I know what it was, all along?”

And then, he is in a different instance in the past, and he is standing outside and next to the doors of the Homicide squad room, listening to his co-workers chatting about him. About Starsky. About Starsky abandoning him, abandoning _them_ –

_But Starsky said Hutch's pretty serious about his girlfriend. Like, ring-on-the-finger serious._

_Maybe Starsky just got the ball rolling faster on ending the partnership, for Hutch's sake._

Simmons’ and Diaz’s voices seem to resonate in his skull, off the walls of the patio, pommelling him with those incriminating words.

“Oh, Starsky,” Hutch whispers, louder, sturdier. “What did I do, when I told you it was _possible_ I might marry Stacey one day? What did I _do?_ ”

And _then_ , he is hurtling even further back into the past, to that night at The Pits where he and Stacey have spinach lasagna and Starsky has a plate of linguine and clams for dinner. But this time, it’s him who’s eating that plate of linguine and clams and this time, he’s seeing Starsky there at the table with a beautiful, leggy blonde with big blue eyes and golden hair that shines in the sunlight. Starsky’s girlfriend, _steady_ girlfriend whom Starsky had concealed from him for weeks before telling him about her, before telling him that it’s a possibility that he’ll marry her one day. Soon, perhaps … and the mere thought of Starsky getting married, to this beautiful, leggy blonde – who can give Starsky what he wants, who is everything Hutch wishes he is, if it means giving Starsky everything he wants – makes Hutch sick to his stomach.

Makes him lose his appetite. Makes him itch to run away from Starsky and his beautiful, leggy blonde, run out of The Pits like a bat out of hell. Run far, far away where won’t be tormented by the spectacle of Starsky gazing and smiling at someone else with all that love on his gorgeous face, of Starsky holding her hand and caressing her hair, as if he isn’t there at the table with them. As if he doesn’t exist.

“But that’s because … I’m _in love_ with him,” Hutch says, oblivious to the fact that he’s been stroking the yellow flowers of the orchid with both hands for some time, still staring blindly at the floor. “And Starsky, he _can’t_ be in love with me. It’s not _possible_. He said it himself, to my _face_ , he said it – it didn’t _mean_ _anything_ to him. That he only loves _women_ … right?”

And oh god, he’s hurtling back years into the past, to that fateful night in Starsky’s old Ridgeway apartment, in Starsky’s living room and he’s sitting on the floor, dazed, blinking, while Starsky is on the couch, knees drawn up, huddled against the cushions like a turtle hiding in its shell. Starsky’s face is turned away from him, as if it _shames_ Starsky to look at him and no, nono _no_ , he doesn’t want to hear those words again, not even in memory –

_We’re just BUDDIES fucking around! That’s all! It – it doesn’t MEAN anything, okay?! We’re STRAIGHT guys, Hutch! We love WOMEN!_

Hutch is oblivious, too, to his arms clinching the orchid’s blue vase tautly now.

“He wouldn’t look at me. He wouldn’t … look at me.”

Yeah … that’s right, Starsky’s head _was_ turned away from him then, even when – no, _particularly_ when Starsky was shouting those words at him. Starsky _always_ looks him in the eye when the guy has something important to say to him, and the only time Starsky doesn’t, _can’t_ look him in the eye is when he’s … _lying_.

Hutch’s arms descend from around the vase to his thighs, listlessly. His eyes are wide and seeing, truly seeing for the first time in a very long while.

Did Starsky _lie_ to him that night? Did Starsky lie, after all, about their _lovemaking_ meaning _nothing_ to him? Did Starsky lie, after all, about _loving_ him too, as so much more than just buddies?

And if that’s so, why did Starsky lie in the first place? Why did Starsky persistently tell him to not _talk?_

“Every time,” Hutch murmurs to Michael, petting the orchid’s petals, “every time after we made love, he’d shush me. Tell me not to speak, as if he was afraid of what I’d say. As if he was afraid I’d tell him I love him, _really_ love him, and back then, after that _night_ , I … I thought it was because he really didn’t feel the same way, that he was telling the _truth_ when he said it was just fucking around to him. But now …”

Hutch lapses into silence, his head bowed, his lower lip sucked into his mouth. Now, he has something he never believed he’d have again: Hope, in all its blazing glory, a rising star in an infinite cosmos of diminutive, twinkling ones. Hope, that perhaps he was wrong, that Starsky not only loved him the same way then, but still does, even now when they’re worlds apart … and if Starsky _had_ acknowledged their love, their relationship as _lovers_ , how would their lives have turned out?

Would they have been happy together? Would they have worked together as well as they did, despite the romantic and sexual aspects of their relationship? Would they have remained friends, the best of friends, instead of being _strangers_ to each other like they are now?

“Remember when I told you about Tina Bennett? You know, my first case with Joey. The one about the closeted lesbian who was in love with a – a prostitute.” Hutch glances at the Red Mussaenda shrub, envisioning its namesake, a lovely, blonde woman he’d loved and grieved for enough to punch Starsky across the face when Starsky had dared imply she was a hooker. “I thought about her a lot in the weeks after that case. I thought a lot about what Joey said to me, about how things might have been different for her if she had people she could talk to, people she could _trust_. People who would have accepted her as she is, and not what they expected her to be.”

Hutch glances back at the Golden Yellow Cymbidium orchid in front of his face.

“I’d like to think that if Starsky and I had become lovers back then, that everything would have been perfect. That we’d still be together today, that we’d still love each other and be _in_ love with each other … but that would be me being _naïve_ , wouldn’t it? That would be me doing a _disservice_ to both Starsky and I, closing an eye to the _realities_ of the situation.”

Hutch shakes his head, a sad smile very much like Stacey’s gracing his lips.

“We would have had to _lie_ to everyone, just like Tina Bennett did to everyone in her life. We would have had to _pretend_ we were two different people. That outside, we were straight, macho cops who only loved and fucked women like there’s no tomorrow, while inside … we were simply two people in love who loved each other madly and just happened to have the same type of genitals. We would have had to go out with women at some point, if we didn’t want the other guys to start talking about us, and I don’t think I would have handled that very well, Starsky sleeping with other people when he – when he would have been _mine_.

“And there’s _IA_ to think about too, who would have sniffed around us to check the _rumors_ about us being _gay lovers_ , and what would have happened then if IA _did_ find out about our sexual relationship? Starsky and I, we would have been … separated. We’d never be allowed to work together again as cops. Maybe even lose our jobs. Lose the respect of many, if not _all_ of our peers, and probably get harassed by them and every other homophobe who knew the truth.”

Hutch’s sad smile turns into one of resolve.

“But, Joey, he’s a smart young man. Living an honest life does have its consequences, but he’s _right_ : You’ll sleep on a pillow of petals and not thorns, and you’ll have the courage to look people in the eye. The courage to be yourself, to love yourself and others. To be … _warm_ , and to let love grow within you, even if it means possibly losing it one day … and maybe it’s _worth_ the pain, to be _alive_.”

Michael, as anticipated, says and does nothing in reaction to Hutch’s life-altering revelations.

When Hutch stands up and carries the orchid with him inside his apartment, his steps are livelier, mightier. He places the orchid on the coffee table and then meanders to his shelf of books, antiques and trinkets, removing a three-inch thick photo album from the bottom ledge. After sitting on the floor and putting the photo album on the coffee table next to the orchid’s blue vase, he cleans away the thin layer of dust on the photo album’s cover with swipes of his hand. He hasn’t browsed through it in at least one and a half years. Maybe longer.

He smiles fondly at it, at the vertical white stripes on its candy apple red cover. He’d come across it in a gift store during Christmas shopping with Starsky a long time ago. He hadn’t wanted to go, what with him being the Grouch Who Hates Christmas as Starsky eloquently put it, but Starsky had implored him with big puppy dog eyes and a pout and damnit, he could never deny Starsky anything whenever Starsky pulled that look on him. So there he was in one of the city’s biggest shopping malls swarming with harried customers, moping over the excessively capitalist, superficial nature of Christmas these days while Starsky scurried around like one of Santa Claus’ elves buying gifts for his Ma, his younger brother Nicky and his girlfriend of the week (and _him_ , of course) … and there _it_ was, this garishly red photo album on display along with a collection of other similarly red Christmas gift items.

_Hey, Blintz, it’s nice to see my good taste finally rubbing off on you._

“Your namesake liked this photo album so much, he insisted on buying it for me on top of the Christmas present he already got me,” Hutch says to the orchid, sliding his fingers down the album’s smooth leather, still smiling. “Said the _red_ would bring out the _beauty_ of my eyes even more.”

He flips the album open, and his breath hitches at the very first photograph he lays his eyes on.

“We had this picture taken on our first day as plainclothes cops,” Hutch says, his voice huskier, “It was winter time too, and I think it was pretty cold that day, which is why Starsky’s got that wool-knit sweater.”

In the picture, he and Starsky are sitting side by side on the edge of a sidewalk, so close together that their bodies are molded from shoulder to knee. The headlights and bumper of the Torino can be seen to the far left of the picture. He’s wearing a plaid shirt, jeans and light brown jacket. Starsky is wearing a light blue, collared shirt, that black toque and jeans and yes, that bulky, double-knit wool sweater with its unique sirdar pattern that is encircling both their shoulders, cosseting them from the chill. Their cheeks are pressed together as they gaze at the camera. They’re grinning from ear to ear, as if laughing at a joke known only to them.

Them, just them, against a cruel world that would one day divide an ideal whole into two incomplete halves.

Hutch flips the page and sees another photograph of him and Starsky, snapped in Huggy’s former bar and bistro. It had been his thirty-fourth birthday, and Starsky had surprised him with a huge birthday cake and an impromptu date with a twin pair of _very_ busty blondes from Norway (or so they claimed).

“Now _this_ one was taken by one of the twins, after we had dinner and several beers each. I’m looking at the camera just fine, but Starsky, look at him, he’s … looking at me.”

Indeed, in the photograph, Starsky is gazing at him as he smiles at the camera, a soft smile on those expressive lips, an even softer glow emanating from those big blue eyes. He hadn’t noticed Starsky look at him that way at all that night. A mere hour or so after the picture was shot, they had driven over with a twin each to the Sunset Tower on Sunset Boulevard and fucked like bunnies in the twins’ hotel room there. No, not each other, but their respective busty blonde on individual beds, and the whole time he was fucking his writhing, moaning date, he was watching Starsky fucking _his_ date from behind, on hands and knees. Starsky was holding her face down by the neck, his fingers curled in her short hair, thrusting in and out of her hard and Starsky’s eyes were squeezed shut, as if he was in pain ... or as if he didn’t want to see what was occurring on the bed next to his.

And when Hutch’s eyes, wide open, drank in the sinuous play of Starsky’s muscles, Starsky’s agonized expression and Starsky’s mouth falling open in ecstasy like it would when _he_ used to _make love_ with Starsky, Hutch was a goner, gone with shooting stars and bursting nebulae as immeasurable as galaxies. Gone, then floating back down like a feather, back to his panting, sweaty body, to the sensation of big blue eyes with lush eyelashes staring at him, drinking in his face slack with pleasure, his smirk at another job well done after he glanced down and saw his passed out, smiling lady of the night.

Starsky, prone on top of another slumbering Norwegian woman, staring at him as if he was all there was in Starsky’s universe.

Swallowing visibly, Hutch’s gaze flits to another photograph on the opposite page, a photograph that is nearly a decade old.

“I think it was Starsky’s _mom_ who took this picture,” Hutch murmurs. “It was our graduation ceremony at the Academy in Elysian Park. We were two of thirty-two people who graduated that year. There’d been at least five hundred guests at the event. _Five hundred_ , imagine that.”

In the photograph, he and Starsky are in their dark blue, immaculate uniforms. He’s carrying Starsky in his arms, one arm under Starsky’s knees and the other around the middle of Starsky’s back, his hat lopsided on his head. Starsky’s right arm is around his neck and over his shoulders and Starsky’s left arm is flung out, brandishing _his_ hat while Starsky’s right leg is straightened, pointing up towards the sky. They have the widest shit-eating grins ever, Starsky’s being open-mouthed and his exposing both rows of teeth, such was his exultation then.

They were so young, then. So young and full of faith and bravery.

Hutch no longer says anything as he peruses the rest of the photo album with sedate flicks of the pages, as he studies the dozens and dozens of photographs that have captured many precious moments of his past with Starsky. There are so _many_ pictures of him and Starsky together. Standing together, sitting together, eating together, talking together, _laughing_ together. Playing basketball. Playing pool at Huggy’s. Posing on the hood of the Torino. Posing with silly faces for snapshots during their various vacations in and out of the country. Posing in tuxedos. Posing in a variety of costumes. There is even a series of pictures of them just goofing around on a long flight of outdoor stairs, constantly touching or hugging each other. Huggy had snapped those for them, citing ‘perfect blackmail material to make them turkeys pay their tab’ as his reason for doing so. Huggy’s plan obviously hadn’t worked.

Hutch smiles most at pictures where Starsky is grinning at the camera, less so when the pictures include other people, especially ex-girlfriends. When he sees a photograph of him and Starsky with Terry – a smiling, cheerful Terry with her arm around Starsky’s shoulders – his breath hitches again.

“Before she … passed away, she left me a letter requesting me to make sure Starsky and Ollie, the teddy bear she gave Starsky, never changed.” He touches the photograph, the pad of his forefinger on top of Starsky’s heart. “I failed her. It was her last wish in life, and I failed her.”

Hutch is glad that orchids can’t speak. Or condemn.

He flips the photo album shut placidly, a forlorn weightiness upon his shoulders. He gets up onto his knees, the photo album in hand, and is about to stand upright when something rectangular and almost a half inch thick slips from the album and falls onto the coffee table, landing with a slap on its glass surface. It’s a dark yellow envelope, with what feels like a stack of photographs in it. He puts down the photo album, then picks up the envelope and pulls out its contents.

“What the … where did _these_ come from?”

Hutch sits back down on the floor and skims through the random pictures of him, bewildered by them. He still has his moustache and longer hairstyle, which means the pictures are at least two to three months old. There’s one of him in his greenhouse, watering his begonias. A side shot. There’s one of him in the kitchen, cooking something at the stove. A shot from the back, and just enough to the side to see a portion of his face, his small smile. And there’s one of him in his robe, the very robe he’s dressed in right now, and in this picture, he’s sitting on the side of a bed with a tray of food on his lap. He’s trying to open what looks like a white plastic bottle of … medication.

A white plastic bottle of medication he used to keep in his bathroom cabinet, along with Starsky’s other prescriptions.

Hutch skims through the stack faster, seeing a few more shots of himself, and then, after six more, he sees a picture of Starsky. A familiar one, one he’d taken some days after Starsky’s discharge from the hospital. Oh, this stack of photographs, they’re from his camera, and they’re at least _nine_ months old. He recognizes the ones of Starsky, but the ones of himself … Starsky must have snapped those without his knowledge. And then had all the photos developed, also without his knowledge.

Why didn’t Starsky tell him about them? Why did Starsky leave the envelope with the photos in it in the back of his photo album, _hidden?_

He takes his time now to scrutinize the photographs Starsky had taken of him. There are eleven in total, random shots without any theme to them other than him being the unwitting subject. They become more intimate in perception with each one, and in each and every one, regardless of what he’s doing – be it reading a book or watching television or shaving his face in the bathroom or strumming his guitar – he is smiling. He is happy.

These photographs, they’re him through _Starsky’s_ eyes. They’re what Starsky sees when Starsky looks at him, and what Starsky sees is –

Something in the left side of Hutch’s chest skips a beat as he stares at the white back of one of the photographs, a portrait of him standing by the living room window, illumined by twilight rays, smiling at something outside, something he can’t even recall anymore. Starsky had written one word there, in that cursive, energetic penmanship: _Beautiful_.

One word, just _one word_ , shouldn’t be affecting Hutch like it is, but his hands grasping the photograph are trembling and more ice within him is thawing, metamorphosing into hot wetness behind his eyes. He was wrong … he really _was_ wrong in believing that Starsky wanted him to keep his _distance_ after being discharged from the hospital, that Starsky couldn’t _stand_ him. If Starsky had thought of him this way so _recently_ , mere _months_ ago … did Starsky also think the same of him throughout all their _years_ of partnership? Even after that _month?_ Even in spite of all the relationships with _women_ Starsky had since?

A straightforward issue of misinterpretation. That’s what this has been, from the start. A straightforward issue of misinterpretation on _his_ part.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that Finlay, he was right about something else too … It really is all a matter of perspective.”

Hutch reaches out to sweep his fingers over and down the large sprigs of flowers of the orchid. Then, he scrutinizes the photographs of Starsky he’d taken, photographs as intimate in perception as the photographs of him. There are seventeen altogether, and in most of them, Starsky is gazing at the camera, either about to smile or smiling already. There’s that picture of Starsky in the greenhouse, clutching in his hands the same Golden Yellow Cymbidium orchid that’s on the coffee table right now. Starsky is looking away from the camera, seeking a good spot to set the orchid down. Starsky is still pallid in complexion and gaunt from his lengthy recuperation in the hospital, but there is a tender smile on Starsky’s lips and Starsky’s blue eyes are crinkled with contentment.

_Starsky, you don’t have to buy that for me –_

_I want to. It’s a golden beauty, just like you, Blondie._

_Aw, Starsk. And here I thought you hated flower shopping._

_Dying has its way of making ya see lotsa things really differently._

“There’s a huge garden center about nine minutes’ drive from here, on Sepulveda Boulevard,” Hutch says to the orchid, mapping out Starsky’s features with his fingertip. “That’s where we got you from, along with some Mandevillas for the trellis in the greenhouse. I think it was … the second day after Starsky’s discharge from the hospital. I thought he would have wanted to stay indoors while I went to the garden center. He never shopped for flowers and plants with me before, until that day.

“And what’s just as weird was that when I picked him up from the hospital, he didn’t want to go back to his own apartment. He wanted to come _here_. I had to go over to his place to get more of his clothes because he insisted on staying here with me for almost a week. Said that I needed the company and that he had to be here to ‘chase the boogiemen away’.” Hutch’s features soften into a toothless smile. “And you know what? He really did chase the nightmares away, when he was here. Maybe _I_ chased _hi_ s away too.”

Hutch gazes at the next photograph in the stack, a photograph of Starsky at Merle the Earl’s auto mechanic shop, admiring the revamped Torino with its new windows and refurbished doors and fenders. Starsky – in that dark blue t-shirt and jeans – has one hand on the roof of the car and the other touching the driver’s window. His thick, dark curls are being tousled by a breeze, and he’s grinning at the camera, as restored as his cherished car.

_Hutch, tell me how much the repairs cost. Right now._

_Nope. I’m not saying a word._

_Huuuuuuuutch, c’mon! Merle won’t tell me either!_

_Not saying a word about it. Just be happy the Torino’s back!_

_I am, I am! Really, I am. But I can’t let you pay for all of it. Lemme pay half, how about that?_

_Nope. Now get in the driver’s seat and take me for a ride._

_Where?_

_Anywhere you want._

_What if I’m already where I wanna be?_

_And where’s that?_

“Starsky never did answer me,” Hutch murmurs, smiling at the photograph, at Starsky’s bliss. “He just turned red as his car and hopped into the driver’s seat like I told him to and took us joyriding for hours. You should have seen how _happy_ he was behind the wheel. It was worth every cent I paid.”

The following photograph makes Hutch laugh aloud. In it, Starsky is gobbling down a piece of pizza at one of Starsky’s favorite Italian restaurants, his cheeks ballooned like a squirrel’s with nuts, and those big blue eyes are closed in gastronomical delight. The last time Starsky got to eat pizza before that was over seven months ago, before the shooting in the Metro car park. If photographs were capable of storing audio information as well, anyone seeing this picture would hear Starsky’s jubilant moan as he chewed on his oversize mouthful of pizza, and Hutch can hear it in his head, an amusing sound that had also made him laugh back then.

“I didn’t even mind when he went on about Italian restaurants and his grandma again. Hearing him talk about it, it was like a _sign_ that everything was okay again. That we were back to normal. That he didn’t _change_.”

And in retrospect, now that he thinks about it methodically, Starsky _hadn’t_ changed then, not yet. As a matter of fact, Starsky was at his cheeriest all through that week that Starsky stayed here in his apartment, as if Starsky had been searching for something for a very long time and found it here, with him. As if he, just he and no one else, was all Starsky ever needed.

“It was when we went back to work,” Hutch says, his voice lower, more lugubrious now. “That was when it began, the change. That was when he began to get frustrated, _angry_ all the time, as if he didn’t _like_ the _job_ anymore, and he was taking it out on me all the time, because … he knew I could handle whatever he dished out. That I wouldn’t desert him, no matter what. But then, if he really didn’t enjoy the _work_ anymore, the only logical conclusion I can come to is that he came back … for _me_.” Hutch shuts his eyes, props his elbows on the coffee table and then lets his head fall forward into his hands. “And then Stacey came along, and he … thought I’d chosen _her_ over _him_. Which I did. Because I had _no_ idea. _Shit_.”

This time around, Hutch isn’t as glad that orchids can’t speak. He’d do well with a loving word right about now. Preferably in a nasally voice with a pronounced New York accent like his orchid’s namesake’s.

When he opens his eyes, he sees yet another photograph of Starsky, in which Starsky’s eyes are closed and Starsky is reclined on a bed, sound asleep. He tugs it out from beneath two other photographs and holds it between his thumb and forefinger. There are parallel bands of sunshine across Starsky’s abdomen while the rest of the slumbering man is shrouded in mild shadows, as if the curtain’s partially drawn. Starsky’s denim shirt is open and spread to the sides, and though Starsky’s chest hair had grown back by the time this picture was shot, the scars crisscrossing his chest are still noticeable.

“Took this on the last day he stayed here,” Hutch whispers, staring at Starsky’s face so boyish in sleep. “He took a nap on my bed, after we went out for burritos for lunch. It was really hot that day. I took a shower while he slept, thinking he’d wake up when I was done, but when I came out of the bathroom …”

He becomes quiet as the memory of that afternoon rushes back to him in Technicolor. He’d come out of the bathroom with his towel around his hips, his hair still wet, and he had halted in his tracks at the sight of Starsky napping like he was. He’d tiptoed into the bedroom and to the side of the bed, snatching his camera from the dressing table along the way, then cautiously sat himself down on the edge of the bed, near Starsky’s knee. Snapping the picture took only a second.

Moving away from Starsky, when Starsky appeared just like he did when they still made love, when they were still _lovers_ , was a totally different game.

A game Hutch lost immediately, as he slid up the bed, nearer and nearer to Starsky’s bare belly and chest.

He’d gasped when Starsky raised hand to his face, touched his lips with warm fingers. Starsky’s eyes were barely open. Starsky was murmuring something under his breath, something Hutch hadn’t wanted to hear then. Something Hutch, as he is lucidly recollecting the moment now, is finally hearing with utter clarity:

_Don't talk, Hutch, please._

_Don't let the real world in and tear us apart._

Hutch had bolted from Starsky then, terrified of hearing Starsky reject him again, but now, _now_ he is bolting to his phone, almost knocking it off the side table in his haste to finally pick up its receiver, to _finally_ press its black buttons with its white numbers and listen to the monotone ringing as he nervously waits for his call to be connected, hands clamped around the receiver.

The ringing continues for an entire minute.

Halfway into the second minute, Hutch lets the receiver drop back onto the phone, terminating the call. He sighs, shaking his head self-critically. Of _course_ Starsky won’t pick up the phone. Starsky isn’t at home. He’s still out there in his Narco undercover job, and who the hell knows when Starsky will be back?

“Diaz.”

Hutch glances at the clock on the wall next to the shelf. It’s about five minutes after ten. Diaz ought to be still awake and at home. If there’s somebody aside from Simmons who’d have any inkling at all about Starsky’s current whereabouts, it’s Diaz and his contacts in Narco.

Diaz picks up on the fifth ring.

“Hey, ustedes dos! Dejar de luchar por la televisión! Usted debe estar _durmiendo_ ya!”

Hutch rears back from the receiver, grimacing at the strident volume of Diaz’s admonishment. Diaz’s kids must still be up too, and probably quarrelling over the television.

“Vete a dormir! _AHORA_ _!_ ”

“Diaz? Is this a bad time –“

“Hey, Hutch! ¿Qué pasa?”

Hutch smiles although Diaz can’t see it, and says, “Just wanted to talk to you about –“

Diaz’s voice sounds faraway again as he roars away from the phone, “ _Humberto!_ Golpear a tu hermano en la cabeza para mí!”

Hutch chuckles to himself when he hears the ruckus of teenage boys bickering in the background. Yeah, he remembers the days when he was that age. He’d had his share of clashes with other teenage boys in the neighborhood where he’d lived with Aunt Lillian in Duluth. There was even one girl with whom he almost brawled with, a girl a lot like Pete AKA Molly Edwards,  who’d stayed overnight in his apartment just before Christmas four years ago, whose father was murdered for diamonds he’d stolen and hoarded. Pete’s still living with Kiko and his mom, and is just a year away from graduating from high school.

God, how fast they grow up.

“Sorry about that, my twin boys were fighting over the TV when they should have gone to bed already.”

“It’s okay, Diaz.”

“You wanna know the true meaning of hell? Try living with _four_ hormonal teenagers with mood swings bouncier than the _jugs_ of a can-can danc – _¡ay!_ ”

Hutch sucks in his lips so as to not laugh as Diaz’s wife, Imelda, smacks Diaz for his vulgar quip and chides him in Spanish. Imelda smacks Diaz a second time when her husband says in a honeyed tone, “Imelda, mi amor, dame un poco de cerveza de la nevera, ¿verdad?”

Hutch soon hears the pop of a beer can, then the noises of Diaz taking a gulp and sighing in satiation.

“I’d hand you a can, mi amigo, but you’re all the way in Venice and I’m in La Brea.”

Hutch chuckles again, and says, “Thanks for the thought though. How’re things with you, apart from hormonal teenagers with wild mood swings?”

“I’m good, I’m good. Me and Chen been working on a case in Chinatown. Young Asian girl, an immigrant from Hong Kong, was murdered in her studio apartment. Dobey handed the case straight to us for obvious reasons.”

“Chen’s fluent in both Mandarin and Cantonese, right?”

“Yeah. He’s a godsend in this case. Wouldn’t know a damn thing anyone was saying without him translating everything for me. Think the case’s getting to him a bit though. He’s got a younger sister around the same age and build. You know how it is sometimes.”

“Yeah. I do,” Hutch says, relocating himself from the floor to the more comfy sofa.

“You and Callahan, you were working on that mystery corpse in that burnt down house in Atwater Village, right?”

“Not such a mystery anymore. Homeless guy broke into the home of a family away on vacation. Lived there for two days and then the whole place went up due to a gas leak.”

“Damn. What a way to go.”

“Yeah. Identification was possible only because of dental records. The guy had loads of amalgam fillings.”

“Hey, Hutch, I visited Simmons three days ago.”

Hutch sits up straighter.

“Yeah? How was he?”

“I dunno what the hell kinda meds he had. He was loop de loop outta his _head_ , man. Kept asking Babcock to just _marry_ him already so they can have _tax breaks_.”

Hutch laughs with Diaz even as he glances at the photographs of Starsky on his coffee table. It’s a rather shrewd (if lily-livered) tactic, to ask a guy to marry you when you’re high on meds and you’re a guy yourself. He might just _try_ that with Starsky one day … if he ever gets to talk to Starsky again, and Starsky wants to be part of his life again.

“But yeah, once he was more _down_ to _earth_ , he had a lot to say. He told me about The Fin, and that the rumors about Starsky really are bullshit. Thank _fuck_.”

Smirking, Hutch asks, “Shouldn’t you be saying, ‘Thank god’?”

“Nah. That’s my wife’s deal, not mine.”

Hutch isn’t all that surprised by Diaz’s reply. Although Imelda is a staunch Christian (last checked), Diaz has always been skeptical of religion in general but attends church on Sundays with Imelda and their children for her sake. Imelda isn’t pleased about Diaz’s disbelief but, well, you just can’t help who you fall in love with, sometimes.

“Hutch, you gotta watch your back. This Finlay _psycho_ is _not_ somebody to be taken lightly. He sounds like one _seriously_ sick muthafucker.”

“I know.”

Diaz sips his beer, then says, “You wanna know whether Starsky’s back in from the cold, huh?”

Hutch smiles in amusement at Diaz’s choice of words. There’s something very _apt_ about them, about the imagery it brings to his mind. Yeah, he’d like to bring Starsky back in from the cold, back to his side so they can both be _warm_ once more.

“I’ve become that predictable, huh?”

“Heh. Like nobody knows how _tight_ you and Starsky are.”

Hutch also smiles at Diaz’s use of present tense. It infers a great deal to Hutch, a great deal of positive sentiment.

“You talked with your pals in Narco lately?”

“Yeah. After visiting Simmons and hearing everything from him, I figured you’d be worried about Finlay going after Starsky. Spoke to McLaughlin and Liu soon as I could. They’re partners in Narco, been there for about three years. Chen’s real tight with Liu. And before you ask, I _highly_ doubt either one is the mole Simmons’ _birdie_ was talking about.”

“Good to know.”

“Seriously. McLaughlin and Liu _like_ Starsky. According to them, Starsky actually gets along fine with most of the Narco guys. It’s just when D’Amato sticks around in his _personal space_ too much that he blows up, and who the hell likes having somebody in their _face_ all the time, right?”

Hutch lays back on the couch, slouching on the cushions and propping his right arm on the armrest.

“What _is_ up with that?”

Diaz snorts and says, “Who knows. Maybe D’Amato’s _jealous_ of the closeness you and Starsky had in your partnership. Damn big shoes he had to fill, considering you’re the guy who took down _Gunther_.”

Hutch scratches the top of his head, murmuring, “Not going to deny that.”

“By the way, Rivera finally came clean with me. I had a _chat_ with him after I paid him a surprise visit and told him that I knew what’s really going on with him. I took a big risk, I know, but I got tired of pussyfooting around waiting for him to crack. It was worth it. He caved instantly and told me everything.”

Hutch sits upright again, his eyes wide with anticipation.

“What did he say?”

“Just like you suspected. The same goons in ski masks crashed his home and threatened to kill his whole family unless he quit pronto. They said they worked for The Fin, but based on what you and Simmons know now, that’s probably bullshit.”

“Yeah. Finlay’s thugs are foreign guys who speak Dutch but can understand English. Simmons said the goons who attacked him spoke English with an American accent.”

“That’s what Rivera said too. English only, American accent. And yeah, Simonetti and Dryden looked him up a while after the attack. Grilled him about his resignation and the goons, but he didn’t spill to them. He was scared _shitless_ the goons were watching his house and would assume IA’s visit meant he’d talked.”

“Did the goons ever return?”

“Nope. He never saw or heard from them again. I’m thinking the intimidation crap was all they were paid to do. And ya know what’s interesting?”

“What?”

“Rivera said that Simonetti asked him way more about _D’Amato_ than Starsky. Like maybe Simonetti’s actually gunning for D’Amato and _not_ Starsky.”

Hutch shifts on the couch, folding his right leg beneath him.

“That _is_ interesting. Could be IA’s got something on D’Amato that we don’t know about.”

“Could be.” Diaz takes another gulp of his beer. “McLaughlin and Liu, they don’t like D’Amato either. They kinda wish he was _gone_ , but he’s been around a long time, and he’s quite chummy with Lisner.”

“Lisner?”

“Yeah. Captain Charles Lisner of Narco. He’s been the department’s head honcho for at least seven years. I think he and Dobey are pals.”

Hutch’s eyes narrow with suspicion. Captain Charles Lisner … an old-timer, and someone in a position of power, someone with abundant influence over Narco’s administration and employment of cops to its service. Someone with the authority to promptly green-light the transfer of a cop from Homicide into his department. 

What are the chances that Captain Lisner is the same captain Finlay was scheduled to meet that day?

“You know anything else about Lisner?”

“McLaughlin said that Starsky and Lisner get along really well, even better than D’Amato does. McLaughlin also said Simonetti was _wheedling_ Lisner earlier this week, after Simmons got attacked. Trying to get Lisner to bring Starsky and D’Amato back in from their undercover mission. Did that for a day or two, and then Simonetti suddenly backed off on Starsky, like he’d lost interest.”

“So maybe it’s _true_ that Simonetti’s actually gunning for D’Amato instead.”

“Maybe. It’s not like it‘s a _secret_ he had a _beef_ with you and Starsky, right?”

“Right.”

“Took McLaughlin and Liu just one day to find out why. They had to look up a few of their snitches for a case, and they were told that some _big-ass_ thugs have been going around beating the _living shit_ outta other snitches for the last couple of days. Their snitches were so _scared_ , they had to pony up several Ben Franklins just to get the snitches to meet with them.”

“Big-ass thugs who happen to speak _Dutch?_ ”

“They didn’t ask about _language_. All they were told was that the thugs were _big_ and _bad_ , especially one guy. One snitch claimed he was over _seven feet_ tall and just as _wide_.”

“Hans,” Hutch whispers to himself.

“What?”

“Nevermind. What else did they say?”

“The snitches? They said the beatings are happening because other snitches were spreading around _misinformation_ about The Fin and are paying the price for it.”

“The misinformation being that Starsky’s a dirty Narco cop working for The Fin.”

“Yeah. Guess Finlay really doesn’t like people spreading _lies_ about him.” Diaz clears his throat, then says, “Either that, or he’s doing it on _your_ behalf.” When Hutch groans and covers his eyes at that, Diaz adds, “C’mon, you don’t think it’s a _coincidence_ these beatings are happening _after_ Finlay met you, do you? Starsky’s been in Narco for _months_ now. Why would Finlay wait till _now_ to wreak his _revenge?_ ”

“What does he _gain_ from doing that for me?” Hutch asks, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his left hand.

“It’d _please_ you to have Starsky’s name cleared, right?”

Hutch is silent for a few seconds before saying, “Yeah. It would.”

“I told you, do _not_ take this psycho lightly. He wants to gain your _favor_ , and it looks like he’s willing to do _quite_ a lot for it.”

“And like I told Joey, Simmons and Babcock, like _hell_ I’ll ever work for him.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” Diaz gulps down two more mouthfuls of his beer. “Hutch, as far as McLaughlin and Liu know, Lisner’s made the decision to pull Starsky and D’Amato out of their undercover job. Word is that they’ll be back at the Metro by tomorrow. The day after tomorrow, at latest.”

Hutch’s blue eyes flutter shut upon hearing that, in acute relief.

“Thanks, Diaz.”

“Isn’t it your day off tomorrow? I heard Dobey yelling through his office door for you to keep your _ass_ outta the Metro for the next two days.”

“Heh, yeah. Doubt Dobey will mind me showing up to finish paperwork though.”

“Fucking paperwork,” Diaz mutters, and Hutch sniggers and says, “Yeah, fucking paperwork.”

A dense hush reigns in Hutch’s apartment after Hutch bids Diaz goodnight and puts down the receiver. He feels as buoyant as air, and even though it’s less than an hour till midnight, he feels wide awake. Geared up. Primed and all set to tackle the upcoming day, to finally talk face to face with the man who is his fiery sun, the man he loves and wants to be with for the rest of his life.

“Starsky,” he whispers, staring once more at the photograph of Starsky slumbering on his bed, sweet and beautiful.

Tomorrow, his ice age will reach its end at last. Tomorrow.

 

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Translations**

From Dutch:

 _Het is oke, Hans. Laat Detective Hutchinson spreken zijn geest._  
\- It's okay, Hans. Let Detective Hutchinson speak his mind.

 _Ik wil hem pijn doen, baas. Laat mij deed hem pijn._  
\- I want to hurt him, boss. Let me hurt him.

 _Nee. Niemand doet hem pijn. Begrijpen?_  
\- No. No one hurts him. Understand?

 _Baas, je ontmoeting met de kapitein._  
\- Boss, your meeting with the captain.  
 _  
Wij vertrekken._  
\- We leave/We are leaving.

 

From Irish Gaelic:

 _Beidh muid ag bualadh le chéile arís, Callahan._  
\- We will meet again, Callahan.

 _Líon ar sé._  
\- Count on it.

 

From Spanish:

 _Hey, ustedes dos! Dejar de luchar por la televisión! Usted debe estar durmiendo ya!_  
\- Hey, you two! Stop fighting over the TV! You should be sleeping already!

 _Vete a dormir! AHORA!_  
\- Go to sleep! NOW!

 _¿Qué pasa?_  
\- What's up?

 _Humberto! Golpear a tu hermano en la cabeza para mí!_  
\- Humberto! Hit your brother on the head for me!

 _Imelda, mi amor, dame un poco de cerveza de la nevera, ¿verdad?_  
\- Imelda, my love, get me some beer from the fridge, will you?

 _mi amigo_  
\- my friend


	2. Chapter 2

& & & & & &

 

Forty minutes past five in the morning, Hutch arises and has a leisurely breakfast of hot coffee, a cheese omelet and toast. Ten minutes past six onwards, he spends his time plucking the steel strings of his guitar on the bed and transcribing any lyrics that come to mind on a new notepad, his mind streaming at optimum speed, his fingers spry and vigorous as if possessed by an invisible power of creation. He writes of an angel and a dreamer, of an enduring star’s light in an obscure cosmos, of golden flowers blossoming in sunshine and sings with a voice mellowed by the decades. At precisely thirty-eight minutes past six, he quietly observes the sun emerging over the horizon through the windows of his bedroom, through the trellises of his greenhouse on the patio, his guitar on his lap and a soft smile upon his lips.

Twenty-five minutes past seven, clad in his black leather jacket, dark turquoise turtleneck, jeans and snug, tough boots, he locks his apartment’s front door and hops his way down the stairs to the ground floor and to his LTD parked by the sidewalk. Twelve minutes past eight, he strolls into the squad room at the Metro, humming one of his self-composed tunes. He sees Sweeney and his partner Schmidt sitting at their usual spots at the end of the desk closest to the doors, drinking coffee from their mugs and rifling through stacks of files. He also sees Diaz and Chen sitting at _their_ usual spots at the desk, leaning towards each other while inspecting some photographs laid out in rows, discussing something with murmurs and nods.

Sweeney and Schmidt greet him with, “Morning, Hutch,” while Diaz waves at him with his left hand. Chen is so engrossed in whatever he’s saying to Diaz that he doesn’t realize Hutch is there until Hutch gives his shoulder a squeeze.

“Oh, hey, Hutch,” the Chinese-American detective says, glancing up at him and smiling broadly. “Thought it was your day off today.”

“Yeah, who the hell are you and what have you done with the _real_ Hutch?” Diaz asks, deadpan, and Hutch grins and replies, “I’m the handsome, talented one.”

“That explains a _lot_ , don’t it?” Diaz says to Chen. Hutch laughs and leans across the desk to give Diaz a good-natured punch on the arm. Diaz also laughs while Chen continues to smile.

“Is Dobey in yet?” Hutch asks once their laughter has died down.

“Yeah, me and Chen came in about a half hour ago and Dobey was already in his office shouting at somebody on the phone.”

Hutch scratches the side of his neck, grimacing slightly.

“Bad mood?”

Diaz shrugs and says, “No idea. Only one way to find out, amigo.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

Diaz leans over the table towards Hutch and Hutch bends down and leans over the table as well to better hear what Diaz has to say to him next.

“You telling Dobey about The Fin?”

Hutch nods and replies, “And about Starsky.”

“You still thinking something big’s about to go down, huh?”

Hutch presses his lips together in a frown of uneasiness, and he glances at the grey surface of the desk before glancing back at Diaz and murmuring, “Whoever’s setting up Starsky and Finlay, they’ve planned things out, on a big scale. I don’t think they’re going to stop at beating up cops and spreading lies on the streets.”

“Just means to an end?” Diaz asks.

“Yeah,” Hutch says. “I’ve gone as far as I can on my own.”

“Hey now, don’t forget _us_ ,” Diaz says, aiming a mock glower at him, and Hutch smiles and pats Diaz on the upper arm.

“I haven’t. I’ll do my best to leave you guys out when I talk to Dobey afterwards.”

“Why?”

Hutch scratches the side of his neck again, looking down at the pictures on the table between Diaz and Chen. They are gruesome and sobering, depicting the blood-spattered death scene of what used to be a young Asian woman with long, black hair and a slender physique. There are numerous stab wounds all over her naked torso. Her face is speckled with more blood and veiled by her hair, like a death shroud. When Hutch glances at Chen, he sees the consternation in Chen’s brown eyes as the younger man stares down at the pictures. He knows that Chen is seeing his younger sister in those pictures, that Chen is imagining the horror of being in the shoes of the victim’s family members.

That the same sort of butchery awaits anyone who crosses paths with Finlay as well as the as yet nameless mastermind who seems determined to take Starsky apart along with Finlay.

“I think the less I say about who’s been involved in this situation with me so far, the _safer_ you all will be,” Hutch says gravely.

Diaz says nothing in reply, and simply nods with a meditative expression on his face. Like Chen, Hutch knows Diaz is thinking about his family now, about Imelda and their teenage twin boys and girls. With so much love can come so much _fear_ too, a fear for the security and wellbeing of loved ones that Hutch understands all too well.

“Okay, I’m going down to R&I,” Chen says.

Diaz grunts in acknowledgement as Chen stands up and nods goodbye at Hutch. Hutch watches Chen stride out of the squad room, then turns around and approaches the shut door of Dobey’s office with noiseless steps. As he draws near it, he can hear Dobey speaking to someone else in the room.

“When were they supposed to make contact with you?”

“Six. It’s been over two hours.”

A groove appears between Hutch’s creased eyebrows as he tries to identify the man with whom Dobey’s talking. He doesn’t recognize the voice. It has a tenor quality to it, but is also rich and impressive. It is the voice of someone with influence, someone who _knows_ that he has it.

“Hutchinson isn’t here, Charles. I gave him the day off. And tomorrow.”

Hutch’s eyes widen upon hearing Dobey state that name. Charles … It might be Captain Charles Lisner in there. If it is, what’s the captain of Narco doing in Dobey’s office? And what does Lisner want with _him?_

“But you got his contact number, right?”

“Yeah. I’m just telling you, he and Starsky … they didn’t have an _amicable_ split.”

“I’d like to talk to him anyway.”

“What makes you think Hutch would know anything about Starsky’s whereabouts now?”

“I don’t. But I know from Starsky that they were really close. Right now it’s all I got, Harold.”

Hutch stares at the door sightlessly. It’s Lisner in there, no doubt about it. And what the hell did Lisner mean, that all he’s got to obtain Starsky’s whereabouts is _him?_ Is Starsky … _missing?_

Staring at the door, his concentration wholly on the muffled conversation on the other side of it, Hutch is unaware of someone walking up to him. He jumps when a large hand touches his shoulder.

“Hey, Hutch. What’re you doing here?”

Hutch swivels around to see a smiling Callahan in a light brown leather jacket, a black cable sweater, jeans and sneakers. It’s the first time Hutch has seen Callahan in anything other than a suit and tie. Callahan is holding a folder in his left hand at his side.

Pressing one hand to his chest, Hutch smiles back and whispers, “Joey, you _scared_ me! What are _you_ doing here?”

Callahan elevates the folder into view.

“Gotta pass my report for the Freeman case to Dobey. I had to make some corrections to mine, remember?” Callahan replies, also whispering.

“Oh, right.”

“So what are _you_ doing here?” Callahan asks again, and Hutch gestures with his head at Dobey’s office door.

Callahan doesn’t inquire more, and instead, says, “How about we go in together then?”

At Hutch’s nod, Callahan raps his knuckles thrice on the door. The conversation inside the room goes dead. Two seconds later, Dobey roars through the door, “Come in!”

Callahan enters first, saying, “Good morning, sir,” to Dobey and nodding at Lisner with whom he is unacquainted. Hutch uses the few precious seconds he has as he steps into the office behind Callahan to catch a glimpse of Lisner first before Lisner sees him.

Lisner is standing next to Dobey’s desk and in front of the office’s side door, facing the length of the aforementioned desk. Lisner is about five foot eleven inches tall, dressed in a dark grey tweed suit and cream-colored tie. Lisner has short, chestnut brown hair that has gone salt-and-pepper grey at the sides, thin eyebrows, a beaked nose, a thin upper lip but full lower lip and hazel eyes. It’s the eyes that register most with Hutch, the paternal glimmer in them that tempers Lisner’s austere features with benevolence. They are kind eyes. The eyes of a caring man who prioritizes the welfare of those under his guardianship, eyes that Dobey has too.

Yeah, Hutch can see why Starsky would get along well with Lisner.

Dobey, who is seated at his desk, does a double take when he steps out from behind Callahan and stands next to Callahan in front of the desk, to the younger detective’s left.

“Hutchinson,” Dobey says, his tone low with surprise.

“Hi, Cap,” Hutch says to Dobey even as he glances at Lisner. Lisner is also gazing at him, evaluating him like he did Lisner.

“Hutch, Callahan, this is Captain Charles Lisner from Narco,” Dobey says once he’s recouped his equanimity. Lisner offers his right hand to Hutch, and Hutch grips it firmly and shakes it with his own right hand. Lisner’s grip is just as firm.

After Lisner shakes hands with Callahan, Lisner says to Hutch, “I’m glad you’re here, Hutchinson.”

Keeping his expression neutral, Hutch asks, “How can I help you, sir?”

Lisner doesn’t hesitate with his answer.

“As you know, Starsky is under my supervision and partnered with Tony D’Amato. A few weeks ago, I assigned them a deep undercover job since they did really well on their first mission together. They’re supposed to check in with me every day at six a.m. by phone, and they’ve done that without fail … until today.”

Colossal shales of ice begin to slink up the walls of Hutch’s inner fortress, freezing him within with alarm.

“You want to know if I’ve heard from Starsky,” Hutch says, his expression still neutral.

“Yes. Have you heard from him at all in the last twenty-four hours?”

Hutch’s gaze drops from Lisner’s face to Dobey’s desk. His eyes dart from the heaps of case files teetering on the edge of the table to the black phone with its multitude of dials on Dobey’s left and then to the two-tiered desktop organizer crammed with documents on Dobey’s right. His hands, though compressed into fists at his sides, are vibrating, and even with his turtleneck and jacket on, he shivers.

Fuck, why is it so _cold_ in here? Has the heater broken down?

“No. I haven’t spoken to him for weeks. I – I have no idea where he is.”

He senses Callahan’s and Dobey’s eyes on him as well, but he looks unfalteringly at Lisner, his back straight, his shoulders aligned. The glimmer in Lisner’s eyes has become an analytical one. Lisner’s stare is lancing, discomfiting … and peculiarly, Hutch is reminded of Stacey, of the occasions when she had given him those allusive gazes like she was trying to _tell_ him something but didn’t really know how to go about it. Like an unspoken message between the lines.

Or a dangling bait, waiting for him to bite it and be reeled in. A bait suspended from the fingers of an unknown, malevolent criminal mastermind … or from the fingers of a silver-suited man with shark-like teeth.

Which is it?

“I’ve already sent two of my men over to their assigned apartment. They’ll contact me as soon as they get there and look around,” Lisner says, still looking him in the eye, expressionless. “Starsky and D’Amato were supposed to come back in today. Told them yesterday morning to get ready.”

“And everything was okay with them then?” Hutch asks.

“Yes. If all was well, they would have checked in today as usual and be back here already for debriefing.”

Five long seconds tick by as Hutch and Lisner persist in staring at each other, gauging each other. With each second, Hutch is becoming more and more confident that he’s reading Lisner accurately, that Lisner isn’t here to ask him about Starsky, but to _tell_ him about Starsky. Lisner has no obligation to inform him of any of this although he _was_ Starsky’s partner, and Starsky would never compromise an undercover job by communicating with anyone whom he isn’t authorized to do so … unless it’s a last resort. Unless he’s in trouble. _Big_ trouble.

“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” Hutch says, his face as expressionless as Lisner’s. Inside, however, his stomach roils with sour worry and bitter premonition, and there’s ice, withering ice everywhere.

“You still might be, Hutchinson. Stick around, alright?” Lisner replies. Then, breaking their eye contact at last, Lisner glances at Dobey and says, “Thanks, Harold.”

“Charles, soon as you hear from your men, _I_ want to know.”

Hutch glances at Dobey, smiling inwardly in gratitude. That’s his captain, a big, scowling man regularly roaring gruff orders to camouflage a big, compassionate heart.

Lisner nods at Dobey and says, “Sure.”

Lisner then nods at Hutch and Callahan and exits the office through the side door, leaving behind a thunderstruck trio of men. Dobey stares at the side door, frowning, while Callahan and Hutch exchange concerned glances and then look at Dobey. Dobey only looks at them when Callahan clears his throat and steps forward.

“Uh, sir, my report for the Freeman case, as you requested,” Callahan says, handing Dobey the folder in his hand.

Dobey points at one of the stacks of files on his desk.

“Leave it there.”

As Callahan does so, Dobey glowers at Hutch and exclaims, “What are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you yesterday to keep your _ass_ out of here until the day after tomorrow?!”

Hutch also clears his throat. Poker-faced, with his hands crossed behind him, he replies, “Well, Captain, I, uhm, I thought I might as well come in and get paperwork done.”

Dobey’s right eyebrow quirks upwards with incredulity.

“ _Paperwork_.”

“Yes, sir. Paperwork.”

Dobey stares at Hutch for several seconds. When Hutch says nothing else, Dobey stares at Callahan instead, and says, “And _you?_ ”

Callahan has gone back to standing beside Hutch, and seems tongue-tied for a moment.

“Uh, I …” Callahan coughs, then says intelligibly with a straight face, “I think I’ll get paperwork done too, sir. Following a positive example, and all that. Sir.”

Dobey eyeballs them one at a time, first Hutch then Callahan, then Hutch again. When Hutch is just about to speak, Dobey rolls his eyes and releases a loud sigh.

“Fine, get to it then,” Dobey mutters, shooing them away by waving his right hand towards the office’s main door. Callahan goes first, opening the door and sauntering through it. Hutch follows him, but is immobilized by Dobey’s discreet utterance of his name. Standing within the frame of the door, he pivots to face Dobey, his right hand on the door knob.

“Hutch, whatever you do, you _talk_ to me first. Understand?”

Dobey’s tone and glower brook no argument. Hutch returns the gaze with an impassive one, but nods in agreement. Callahan is standing next to the door as he shuts it behind him, and he turns to face Callahan, feeling guilty for embroiling the younger man even further in the situation when it’s also Callahan’s day off.

“Joey, you don’t have to –“

“Hutch.” Callahan rests a hand on his left shoulder. “I want to be here. Okay?”

Hutch looks at Callahan for an instant, then sends the younger detective a small albeit thankful smile. Yeah, that’s what partners do, be there for each other.

“Okay.”

There’s no one else in the squad room except Diaz who’s busy typing up a report. They walk over to the desk and sit at their respective seats, facing each other and mounds of papers and files. Hutch is hankering for more hot coffee, but there’s only a water dispenser in the room. He’ll have to go down to the cafeteria in the basement to get a hot drink of any sort, and he just had hot coffee less than two hours ago and _fuck_ , it’s so damn _cold_ in this godforsaken place that his hands are shaking and he’s queasy. Has the heating in the _entire_ building gone kaput or what?

The banging of typewriter keys ceases.

“What happened?”

Diaz’s tone causes Hutch to glance sideways at the other detective, and he sees that Diaz is staring at him, at his face, as if his expression is perturbing the man. Before he can reply, Diaz glances at Callahan for an answer, as if Diaz has presumed that he can’t talk. Callahan’s forearms are on the table top and Callahan’s shoulders are hunched.

Callahan looks Hutch in the eye, then looks at Diaz and murmurs, “Starsky’s gone missing.”

The temperature in the room seems to nosedive by hundreds of degrees. More ice is skulking up the walls of Hutch’s fortress, blocking out all air, all light. _Drowning_ him.

“The _fuck?_ You serious?”

Diaz leaps to his feet and goes to sit next to Hutch. Hutch doesn’t respond when Diaz clasps his shoulder. _Can’t_ respond.

“Shit, Hutch, no wonder you look like you’re about to keel over from a _heart attack_.”

“Captain Lisner from Narco was in Dobey’s office,” Callahan says, and Diaz gazes at him while holding Hutch’s shoulder. “He told us that Starsky and D’Amato were supposed to come back here today from a deep undercover mission. He told them yesterday that he was pulling them out. They didn’t check in with him this morning like they should have.”

“How long have they been missing?”

Callahan shrugs.

“Lisner just said the check in time was six a.m. so he probably only found out then.”

“So they could have been missing for way longer than that,” Diaz says. He shakes his head from side to side. “ _Shit_.”

“I’m too late,” Hutch rasps, his blue eyes staring dimly at a black pen on the desk. There are bite marks on the upper half of the pen. He doesn’t know whose pen it is.

“ _Hey_ , you dunno that,” Diaz says, squeezing his shoulder. “Maybe they figured they’d just skip the check in and come back here straightaway. Maybe they’re on their way here right now.”

“Yeah, Hutch,” Callahan chimes in. “Lisner said he’s already sent some of his guys to search for them.”

Hutch glances at Diaz, then at Callahan, his lips downturned and his eyelids heavy. Starsky’s out there somewhere, lost. Starsky’s out there somewhere, when Starsky should be here at his side, when he should be watching Starsky’s back and keeping Starsky _safe_ and … he may already be too late in doing that.

He may have already failed Starsky before even knowing it.

“I’ll go see McLaughlin and Liu.” Diaz gives his shoulder another squeeze, then stands up. “Be right back.”

He doesn’t see Diaz leave the squad room though he hears its doors opening and then closing. He returns to staring at the black pen, mindful of Callahan’s sympathetic gaze on him. The pen … oh, that’s right, it’s Starsky’s. He’d found it on his car’s backseat weeks ago while he was clearing out the accumulating junk of empty plastic cups and cupboard cartons. Starsky had acquired the habit of nibbling pens or pencils after resuming active duty this year, a habit that had annoyed him to no end when Starsky started nibbling on _his_ pens. He’d threatened to stick a pacifier into Starsky’s mouth if Starsky didn’t quit it, and Starsky … Jesus, Starsky had said that he’d quit it if he stuck something _else_ into that big mouth, something bigger and _harder_ –

“Hutch, how about we go up and talk to Lisner again?”

Hutch lifts his head to stare at Callahan. Lisner should be in his office in his department two floors up right now, awaiting updates from the cops who’ve been delegated to explore Starsky’s and D’Amato’s last known location and report to their captain as soon as possible. If Lisner’s dirty like he suspects, if Lisner’s the mole Simmons’ snitch had mentioned and/or the _kapitein_ Finlay had booked to meet that day … all the talking, the _threats_ in the world won’t make Lisner confess anything.

“What if he’s the dirty Narco cop Simmons’ informant talked about?” Hutch murmurs although they’re the only occupants of the room.

Frowning, Callahan bows his head and then sighs.

“He could be. I don’t know. If he is … he seems to be on _our_ side. He seemed pretty damn sure he’d need _your_ help to find Starsky. Even told you to _stick around_ when you’ve got nothing to do with Narco, much less the undercover job.”

Hutch scratches his left eyebrow with his thumbnail. So Callahan did notice how loaded his dialogue with Lisner had been.

“And that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Count me in, then.”

They smile at each other, their blue eyes flashing with newfound resolution.

Less than a minute later, Chen enters the squad room and walks up to the desk with at least six thick folders held to his torso with one burly arm.

“Hey, where’s Diaz?”

“He said he was going to see, uh, McLaughlin and Liu?” Callahan replies.

“Oh, he’s gone up to Narco,” Chen says as he places the folders on the table and sits down. Then, sensing the strained vibe in the air, Chen glances at them and casually asks, “Everything okay?”

Callahan doesn’t look at Chen as he replies, “Hopefully.”

Right then and there, Diaz strides into the room and goes up to Hutch and Callahan and says, “They’re not in. Lisner sent them out.”

Hutch and Callahan look at each other, their visages expressionless. Now they can do nothing but wait for news from Lisner or from Diaz’s Narco pals when they return. Helplessly wait, the worst part of a nasty situation like a loved one going missing, second only to receiving word of their demise.

“Thanks, Diaz,” Hutch murmurs.

“No problem. Keep your chin up, huh?”

For the next two hours while he perfunctorily writes more reports and fills form after form to appease the red tape gods, Hutch is beset by horrifying images of Starsky in various circumstances of death. Images of Starsky tied up, blindfolded and beaten to death by gangsters, of Starsky being thrown into the sea with his hands and feet tied to cinder blocks, of Starsky being buried alive in the middle of the desert. Of Starsky’s head snapping back violently as a bullet bores a path through it, of the spark of life in Starsky’s eyes reducing to ash, and of him cradling Starsky to his body, scrabbling to cup that spark in his arms even as it slips through his fingers.

He is jolted out of his distressing reverie twice. The first time is by Dobey who comes out of his office and trudges to the squad room desk to say to Hutch, “Lisner just told me that his men didn’t find Starsky or D’Amato at the apartment. But there were no signs of struggle, and their personal items weren’t there anymore. Lisner’s also sent out an APB on them, so … let’s hope for the best.”

The second time is by Callahan who reaches across the desk to pat him on the forearm and says, “Hey, Hutch, why don’t we go down to the cafeteria and get some lunch? Hot drink and food will do us some good.”

Hutch pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket as they travel via elevator to the cafeteria, shuddering every so often from an inner gloom that won’t go away. If Callahan has perceived his shivering, Callahan isn’t commenting on it. The cafeteria is about a quarter-full, with uniformed and plainclothes cops scattered throughout the place. Hutch purchases a mug of coffee and a salad while Callahan goes for a coffee too plus a gigantic plate of bolognaise spaghetti, garlic bread and an egg sandwich.

“Didn’t eat any breakfast?” Hutch asks, amused, as they settle down at a table near the ceiling-to-floor pole with its hanging pots of flowers in the center of the cafeteria.

“No, the sandwich’s for you.”  

Callahan passes the egg sandwich to Hutch with his left hand while his right hand twirls spaghetti around a plastic fork. For a split second, Hutch considers declining the offering, but then Callahan adds, “A salad’s not gonna give you energy if you need it. And feel free to eat the garlic bread too.”

Hutch smiles at Callahan. Well, okay, Callahan does have a point there.

“Thanks, Joey.”

Hutch succeeds in ingesting all of his salad and half of the sandwich before feeling queasy again. He gazes frequently at the multicolored, plastic anthurium, hibiscus and Kalanchoe flowers hanging from the pole while he does, like their vibrancy – fake though it is – will warm him within and without if he looks at them long enough. He’s always wanted to buy a hibiscus and include it in his greenhouse. He likes red flowers. He’s always liked red flowers. Or maybe he began to like them because Starsky likes red.

Callahan is eating the last few mouthfuls of his main meal  and Hutch is sipping coffee gone lukewarm when the typical hubbub of the cafeteria is howled down by a deafening, “ _HUUUTCH!_ ”

It’s Chen, sprinting from the cafeteria entrance to their table, narrowly avoiding messy collisions with some patrons who are bearing trays laden with food. Chen is panting, his almond-shaped eyes wide with dismay, his angular face ashen.

“Chen, what the –“

Hutch and Callahan catch Chen by the upper arms before Chen slams into their table. They stand up, and Hutch holds onto Chen’s arm as Chen regains his breath enough to speak.

“Hutch, the _car park_ ,” Chen says between wheezes. “You gotta go up there _right now_ … Starsky’s Torino … D’Amato’s _injured_ and Starsky’s –“

Hutch doesn’t hear whatever else Chen says for he is already dashing towards the cafeteria entrance and through it, dashing up stairs after stairs and then out into the hallway leading to the Metro car park, hearing from afar the reverberating footsteps of Callahan and Chen behind him. When he shoves through the exit doors, he is met with a scene of panic: At least a dozen cops have congregated by the Torino parked haphazardly in front of the exit doors, surrounding D’Amato who is standing groggily and propped up against the side of the Torino by two uniformed officers, asking D’Amato what the fuck happened and who did this and where’s his partner. Even with the throng of people between him and D’Amato, Hutch can plainly see the bright blood pouring down the right half of D’Amato’s face from a head wound. It’s soaking the collar of D’Amato’s white sweater and light green jacket, staining D’Amato’s hands that D’Amato has raised before his face, as if he’s about to collapse any minute now and no, Hutch won’t allow that, he _won’t_ allow that until D’Amato tells him why Starsky isn’t _here_ , tells him –

“ _Where’s Starsky?!_ ”

The entirety of Hutch’s universe shrinks down to his hands fisted in the lapels of D’Amato’s jacket, to shaking D’Amato like a rag doll as the other cops around them swear and push at him and tell him to back off, _back off, man, can’t you see the guy’s HURT_ –

“ _Where’s_ Starsky?! _What have you DONE to him?!_ ”

He smashes D’Amato against the side of the Torino, hauling the mortified, flailing man up and off his feet. This close up, D’Amato’s bloodstained face is nightmarish to stare at, and D’Amato’s eyes are round as saucers and filled with terror towards him.

“The _fuck_ , man, _get off him!_ ”

“Somebody call a _goddamn ambulance_ already!”

“Hutch, c’mon, you’re _choking_ him –“

“Hutch, let him go!”

There are hands on his arms, on his shoulders, yanking at him and there are fingers trying to pry his away from D’Amato’s _neck_ and fuck, there’s an arm around _his_ neck now and it’s _strangling_ him and  –

“Hutch, _Hutch_ , let him _go!_ _This is NOT helping Starsky, Hutch!_ ”

It’s Callahan bellowing into his ear, Callahan’s arm around his neck and oh _fuck_ , oh Starsky, _Starsky_ –

His hands free D’Amato’s neck from their suffocating grip. He stumbles backwards with Callahan from the impetus, into the crowd of cops behind them, and would have fallen to the ground if not for Chen and Diaz grabbing them. Back on solid ground, D’Amato is doubled over and coughing. Rivulets of blood from his face drip onto the asphalt.

Restrained by Callahan with an arm still around his neck and one hand around his left upper arm, Hutch nevertheless charges forward, his expression a ferocious glare as he roars, “ _WHERE’S STARSKY?!_ ”

“We were – _we were gonna meet an important contact at the Savoy!_ At the fucking _SAVOY!_ ” D’Amato roars back, rubbing his abused neck, smearing it with more blood. “He called us up, said he _had_ to meet us this morning and – and he said the _Savoy_ and when we got there, we were _attacked_ by _thugs!_ In _ski masks!_ ” D’Amato points at the goriness of his face. “ _Look at me!_ They _beat_ me and _knocked_ me out! Starsky was _gone_ when I woke up!”

D’Amato’s words are akin to an icy waterfall deluging Hutch from head to toe, sapping him of energy and supplanting it with fear, absolute fear. Thugs in ski masks … Starsky’s been kidnapped by the same thugs who assaulted Rivera and Simmons. Starsky’s been _kidnapped_ and Starsky’s all _alone_ out there and those thugs might be _hurting_ him right now, or _killing_ him –

“Hutch? _Hutch!_ ”

Hutch jostles out of Callahan’s chokehold and ignores Callahan’s call of his name. He shoves everyone away from the side of the Torino, from the half-open driver’s door, sending D’Amato lurching into the arms of two other cops. He clambers onto the driver’s seat, gasping. The steering wheel is slippery under his palms, slippery with D’Amato’s blood, and his fingers grapple with the key in the ignition for several seconds just to turn it.

The front passenger door opens. Someone’s clambering into the car with him.

“Hutch, I’m coming with you and nothing you say’s going to make me get out,” Callahan says in a rush, slamming the passenger door shut.

Hutch’s reaction is to shut his door, shift the gear and stamp his foot on the accelerator, heedless of anyone standing in the path of the Torino. There are yells of outrage, yells of his name and Callahan’s by Diaz and Dobey who must have just arrived at the scene from inside the building.

“ _HUTCHINSON!_ ”

Hutch doesn’t look back.

With the climbing of the speedometer and a sharp turn right, the yells dwindle into the noise of traffic on North Los Angeles Street and is then completely overlain by the bleating of the police siren Callahan has attached to the roof of the car via the wound down passenger window. At the junction between North Central Avenue and South Central Avenue, Hutch makes another sharp turn right, barely averting a fender-bender with a white box truck and a motorcyclist. On South Central Avenue, Hutch presses down on the accelerator as hard as he can, his eyes honed in on the road before him, seeing nothing else and thinking of nothing else but his destination, the place where Starsky was last seen.

“The Savoy’s ten minutes away,” he growls to Callahan, his hands fastened to the steering wheel. “I’ll get us there in _five_.”

It isn’t the first time Hutch has had to hurry to the derelict Savoy theater like this due to an emergency. Starsky had been ambushed there before, by former actor, Lionel Fitzgerald III, who transformed into a homicidal maniac targeting cab drivers after being crippled when an old checkered cab ran over him. In their endeavor to apprehend him, Starsky had gone undercover as a cab driver while Hutch had become the temporary dispatcher at Metro Cab, the cab company helmed by a groovy guy called Manny who didn’t want to lose any more of his drivers. Fitzgerald had disguised himself as an old woman. Once Starsky had driven him to the Savoy, where it all began, he’d whacked Starsky’s head against the car window, giving Starsky a concussion. If Starsky had blacked out, Fitzgerald would have certainly murdered him before Hutch had found him in time.

_Please, let me find him again, before it’s too late._

Hutch doesn’t know if he said that out loud or not. He hasn’t heard a peep out of Callahan who is sitting beside him with one hand on the dashboard and the other clutching onto the passenger door’s armrest.

After rocketing past East 52nd Street, a light silver Lincoln Continental car materializes from nowhere and abruptly swerves in front of the Torino, forcing Hutch to decrease his speed. It remains in front of the Torino even after Hutch thumps on the car horn. When Hutch attempts to swing over onto the opposite lane to take over the car, it copies Hutch’s action, effectively impeding the Torino from going any faster than a crawl. Hutch thumps his fist on the horn again, then unwinds the window and juts his head out and hollers with wrath, “GET OUT OF THE _WAY!_ ”

“Hutch –“

“THE FUCK’S _WRONG_ WITH YOU?! CAN’T YOU HEAR THE _SIREN?!_ ”

“ _HUTCH!_ ”

Callahan is pulling at his forearm. He sits back down and glowers at the other detective, about to shout at Callahan over the siren’s clamor, but Callahan is gazing past him and out his window with wide eyes at something outside, something next to the Torino, and he turns his head to also look out the window.

Sunlight is reflecting off an automobile’s silver hood ornament that appears to be of a smiling woman bent forward with wings spread behind her. The dazzle of the light makes Hutch blink hard, and when he can see clearly again, he is confronted by the massive and sleek, dark red, all-welded chassis of a Rolls Royce Phantom VI. The windows of this particular Rolls Royce are darkly tinted, shielding its occupiers from Hutch’s eyes.

The Rolls Royce cruises up until its front windows are in line with the Torino’s. Then, the front window rolls down, revealing a mob goon pointing a 9mm pistol at him and Callahan. It’s the same goon who had showed up at The Pits with Finlay and his other goon, Hans. The one who’d been keeping an eye on Huggy and his staff at the bar.

“Stop de auto, politieman. Of ik _schiet_ je.”

Hutch doesn’t have a fucking clue what the Dutch goon’s saying, but the gun speaks for itself. Even if he wanted to make a bid for escape, the Torino is now being hemmed in by two light silver Lincoln Continentals, one in the front and one in the back, and the Rolls Royce on the left. Can’t move to the right either, unless he wants to risk being flattened by oncoming traffic.

“ _Motherfuckers!_ ” he snarls at the goon, his ire skyrocketing when the goon merely smirks. Callahan says nothing and gives his right wrist a squeeze, out of sight of the goon. It grounds Hutch, towing him back from the point of no return, from doing something really, really careless. Something that might cost them both their lives. And Starsky’s.

The Torino is guided into a deserted, spacious alley on East 54th Street, just a block away from the Savoy. It’s a grimy alley with trash strewn all over the place, and despite his anger, a part of Hutch is surprised that Finlay will even permit his luxurious vehicle to come into contact with such debris.

“I’m taking down the siren,” Callahan says.

It is eerily silent after Callahan has done so. The Rolls Royce seems to glide on water as it moves past the parked/trapped Torino, till the back passenger window is in line with the Torino’s front window.

The Rolls Royce’s back passenger window winds down.

“Are _you_ behind this, you _sonofabitch?_ ” Hutch says with venom oozing off each word as he glares at Finlay who is sitting all relaxed on the commodious backseat of the Rolls Royce, conveniently hidden in its shadowed interiors from the shoulders up.

“No. And that’s the truth.”

Finlay is outfitted in a black, pinstriped suit this time although his tie is still a bright red color. Hutch narrows his eyes at the mob boss just a few feet away from him. Whether or not Finlay’s telling the truth, one thing Hutch’s sure of now is that Finlay _knows_ what’s going on.

Hutch plays his first card by turning his head away from Finlay and making the motions to shift the Torino’s gear and grasp the steering wheel as if he intends to ram his way out.

“Then _get out of my way_ , or so _help_ me, god –“

Finlay trumps his card with a single, indifferently spoken sentence.

“Detective Tony D’Amato is _lying_ to you.”

Hutch hears Callahan’s almost imperceptible gasp of surprise. Manipulating his facial features into a blank expression, Hutch deliberately turns his head back towards Finlay, glowering at Finlay straight in the eye.

“Oh, I’d be _delighted_ to let you go on to the Savoy if that’s what you _really_ want,” Finlay says with a sardonic tone that claws at Hutch’s nerves. “But as I said, Detective D’Amato is _lying_ to you about Detective Starsky’s true whereabouts. He’s nowhere _near_ the Savoy. Why, he’s nowhere near the _city_ … and by the time you and your fellow policemen figure that out, Detective Starsky will be long _dead_.”

Hutch is cold inside again, so damn cold and sick to his stomach. If Finlay’s lying, the Savoy is just _minutes_ away from where they are now, and other cops are surely on their way there to swarm the place to search for Starsky. But if Finlay’s telling the truth, then going to the Savoy and searching for Starsky there will be an outright waste of time and effort. A waste of Starsky’s _life_.

“Why should I _believe_ you?”

Although Hutch can’t see Finlay’s face, he knows the sadistic bastard is smiling at him.

“Hmm, why should you, indeed.” Finlay pauses, then asks in a magnetic tone that sends shivers up Hutch’s spine, “Tell me, Detective Hutchinson, how much is Detective Starsky’s life _worth_ to you? Enough to become one of _mine?_ ”

Hutch stares at Finlay, his left hand gripping the driver’s door’s armrest so hard that his knuckles are white and his arm muscles are aching. The bastard, the fucking _bastard_ wants him to go _dirty_ in exchange for Starsky’s life and oh shit, _shit_ , what will happen if he rebuffs Finlay’s proposition? What will happen if he says _no?_

And oh no, he’s seeing Starsky standing before him once more, surrounded by so much darkness, and Finlay’s pushing the muzzle of a revolver against Starsky’s right temple and pulling back the hammer of the revolver and … Starsky’s eyes are fervent with fortitude. They do not widen at all but crinkle with impertinence, with astounding mettle.

_Don’t let him win, Blondie._

_Don’t let him change you into something you’re not._

“You really want to know, huh?” Hutch says after a minute of silence. He inclines forward, extending his head past the frame of the Torino’s window, close enough that he can make out Finlay’s face. “My answer to your offer … begins with a _fuck_ and ends with _you_.”

Hutch doesn’t give a damn that the mob goon in the front passenger seat of the Rolls Royce still has his gun trained on him. He doesn’t give a damn that he may have just pissed off the one guy who can tell him where Starsky is, who may just slit his throat and Callahan’s from ear to ear for his audacity. All he gives a damn about is that Starsky will never forgive him for going dirty and there is _no_ fucking way he is ever going to work for Finlay and … holy shit, Finlay is _laughing_.

“I expected no less from you,” Finlay says to him, unmistakably amused and not in the least pissed off. “I would have been _disappointed_ if you’d said yes so quickly.”

Hutch refrains from snorting scornfully. So the fucker thinks he’ll still yield one day and bow to him. Let Finlay have his _fantasies_ , if that’s what Finlay so desperately wants to believe.

“Do you like _mountain trekking_ , detectives? I hear it’s rather _cold_ up in the San Gabriel Mountains at this time of the year. Quite a lot of _snow_ , in fact. Hans had a _lovely_ time up there this morning.”

The goon in the front passenger seat snickers upon hearing that, and Finlay, apparently in a droll mood, asks his henchman, “Hans didn’t _kill_ Detective Starsky as well, did he, Anton?”

“Nee,” Anton replies, smirking at Hutch while continuing to aim the gun at him. “Maar Hans zei dat hij moet heel, heel erg _koud_.”

The last Dutch word impresses itself on Hutch’s brain. Koud … cold. Starsky’s _cold_. Whatever’s happened to Starsky – _if_ Finlay is telling the truth – someone enmeshed in the situation is definitely dead at Hans’ hands … and Starsky’s up in the mountains, very likely on his own since D’Amato is back here in the city, suffering from the wintry weather there.

Why is Starsky all the way in the _San Gabriel Mountains_ when he’s supposed to be undercover here in the _city?_

What the hell did D’Amato _do_ to him up there? And who beat up D’Amato and inflicted that head wound if D’Amato’s _lying_ about the thugs in ski masks and everything else?

“I suggest having a word with the _helpful_ rangers at the Crystal Lake Recreation Center,” Finlay says, leaning forward into the daylight. Out in the open, his shark-like teeth are no less frightening to behold up close. “You never know when you’ll need a _guide_ to find that _old cabin_ on the mountain, hm?”

Neither Hutch or Callahan reply. Finlay sits back into the shadows, then says to them, “I look forward to seeing how this will all end. Perhaps you will surprise me yet.”

“I’ll save the last bullet for _you_ ,” Hutch vows, but Finlay chuckles and murmurs to himself, “Oh yes, you _will_ surprise me yet, Detective Hutchinson.”

The mob boss concludes their spontaneous meeting with the rolling up of his window. Hutch calmly observes the dark red Rolls Royce glide out of the alley and out of view with the two Lincoln Continentals following it. He memorizes their number plates, not bothering with the Rolls Royce’s. Last he checked, there are only over three hundred Rolls Royce Phantoms in the _world_ , and two of them belong to the _Queen of England_. This particular model of Rolls Royce is limited as it is. He’ll have no difficulty spotting Finlay’s vehicle anywhere in town, anytime.

“Hutch.”

Hutch glances at Callahan. The younger detective is sitting upright, gazing at him with an expectant expression.

“What do you think, Joey?”

“It’s your call, Hutch.”

Hutch bites his lower lip, glancing at the steering wheel. He can see the moist smudges of blood on its black leather. D’Amato’s blood, from that grisly head wound.

But _superficial_ head wounds can bleed a lot too, can’t they?

Superficial, _self-inflicted_ wounds.

“If Finlay’s lying and D’Amato’s telling the truth about Starsky being kidnapped by thugs in ski masks, they’ll still be in the city. Lisner already sent out an APB hours ago, so there’re already cops searching for Starsky here. But if Finlay told us the _truth_ and D’Amato _lied_ to us …”

Hutch and Callahan look at each other mutely for a minute. Then, Hutch shifts the gear of the Torino and steers the car out of the alley and back onto South Central Avenue, going back the way they’d come. Callahan plucks up the microphone of the two-way radio, then looks at him again.

“Call them,” Hutch says, staring ahead through the windshield, purpose infusing every cell of his body.

With a relentless press on the accelerator, the Torino races down the road towards the I-10 highway, beginning their hour-long journey along manifold highways and snaking roads to the San Gabriel Mountains between the Mojave Desert and the Los Angeles Basin.

 

 

& & & & & &

 

Snow. There’s snow everywhere.

“Gary and Ian are on the Big Cienega Trail, so chances are we’ll get to the summit first.”

There’s snow everywhere, and it’s so cold, so _cold_ that he can feel it through the winter coat he has on, through his tough leather boots and thick socks.

“Will we get there before sunset?”

“At the rate we’re going, probably. But if Detective Starsky isn’t up there at the cabin, we’ll be searching for him in the dark and that’s going to make things a _lot_ harder, even with Kemosabe and the San Dimas Rescue Team to help us.”

Hutch squints at the snow in which his feet sink in again and again. Who’s the woman Callahan is talking to, exactly?

“And he’s been up there for, what, at least _eight_ hours, you said?”

“Yep, if we assume Detective D’Amato drove back to the city straightaway after coming down from the mountain. Takes about three hours to hike from the Recreation Center to the top of Mount Islip. Same as from the Islip Saddle parking lot where Gary saw Detective Starsky’s Torino yesterday afternoon. Can’t imagine Detective D’Amato would _dilly-dally_ with a head injury like you described.”

“Unless he inflicted it upon himself just before showing up at the Metro.”

“After what you’ve told me about him, Detective Callahan, that wouldn’t shock me at all.”

“Please, call me Joey.”

“And you call me Imogen. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Hutch can see his breaths as billowed mists in front of his face. If he stares hard enough, he can see faces in the mists, faces that stare back at him with distorted, black eyes and grin toothlessly at him. Faces that laugh at him and mock him, that tell him Starsky’s already dead and he’s too late, far _too late_ –

“Hutch.”

A large hand clasps his right upper arm, pinning him in place in the snow. Cold, featureless snow, just like the snow within him. Snow and ice that seem to go on forever and ever, with no sun in sight in the disconsolate sky above.

Is he hiking across his lands of permafrost, away from his fortress of ice, braving the emptiness for the first time in the hopes of encountering new, _fertile_ soil beyond? Or is he hiking up a mountain of snow and skeletal, dormant trees, seeking what may be the last remnants of warmth – of _life_ – of his best friend in the whole world?

Which is it?

“Hutch, let’s take a break, huh?”

Callahan is in a dark green, fleecy winter coat similar to the one he’s wearing. Callahan’s breaths are misting in the air too, but Hutch sees no sinister faces in them. Callahan’s face is flushed from the chill, and his blue eyes are temperate with concern.

“Starsky …”

“I know, Hutch, but we gotta rest, okay? We’ve been walking for almost an hour.”

“There’s a log nearby where we can sit. We’ve got a long way to go, Detective Hutchinson.”

A woman is standing next to Callahan now, a woman in a button-down, long-sleeved khaki top, a pair of long, olive drab pants with a high waist and a long leather jacket with a leather belt. She’s wearing a hat as well, a hat with a flat brim that Hutch swears he’s seen on a _bear_ before. A _talking_ bear.

“C’mon, Hutch. Careful of the big rock there.”

Oh, wait. _Smokey_. Yeah, Smokey the Bear has a hat just like hers, which means she must be … a forest ranger.

 _Oh_ , that’s right. Forest Ranger Imogen Greene, a five-foot-seven, salt-and-pepper-haired, brown-eyed lady from Louisiana. Moved here to California when she was eight years old. That’s what she told them when they started their trek up Mount Islip towards the burnt down, old cabin at its summit. Or was it when she was transporting them in her U.S. Forestry SUV from the rangers station to the head of the Windy Gap Trail?

Which _is_ it?

And where _are_ they on the mountain right now?

“A hot drink will do us some good, fellas.”

Someone is wrapping Hutch’s hands around a plastic cup. He glances down dumbly at it. It’s three-quarters full of black coffee. _Hot_ black coffee. Not caring where it came from, he guzzles it down rapidly, sighing at the expanding warmth within him. It won’t last for a long, but it’s better than nothing. Better than the cold, the snow and the _ice_.

Has it _always_ been this cold in his fortress?

Why did he _stay_ there as long as he did, when the cold does nothing but freeze a person to _death?_

“If our two-way radio wasn’t _busted_ , we would have contacted you at least an hour before we reached your station. I think he took a _screwdriver_ to it, from underneath.”

“An alibi to justify why he never called for backup.”

“Yeah. If we hadn’t been told Starsky was up _here_ instead, we would probably have thought the radio was damaged by the thugs D’Amato claimed had attacked him and Starsky at the Savoy.”

Oh, the cup’s not in his hands anymore. Callahan’s got it now, and he’s drinking from it while talking to Greene. They’re sitting on either side of him on the snow-dusted log, huddling close to him, harboring him from the wind. There is an olive-colored backpack on the ground between Greene’s legs, and an orange thermos held in her right hand.

“Gary was _very_ sure he saw Detectives D’Amato and Starsky yesterday at the Islip Saddle lot. Caught them just as they were parking the Torino, around four in the afternoon.”

“Just the two of them?”

“At the time, yep. We don’t get many visitors at this time of the year, so Gary remembered them well. Detective D’Amato told him that he and his _friend_ were going to camp overnight at the Little Jimmy Campground. That’s about a two-and-a-half mile hike from the parking lot, and about one-and-a-quarter miles or so from the summit of Mount Islip. He thought it was a little _strange_ that they wanted to go camping despite the recent heavy snowfall, but since they had an annual pass and the necessary camping equipment, he didn’t think too much of it.”

“Wait, so D’Amato _didn’t_ identify himself as a cop?”

“Nope. Just said they were friends going camping.”

Now there’s a _dog_ in front of Hutch, a large, dense-coated dog with sable and white fur, erect ears and a plumed tail that’s curling up and over its back. It’s an Alaskan Malamute, and its big blue eyes are staring up at him, as if it’s wondering whether he’s alright or not. He pets the back of its head with his gloved hands, ruffling its ears. It has such big blue eyes. Big, benevolent, animated eyes, just like Starsky’s.

Oh yeah, _this_ is Kemosabe. Greene’s dog. The _smell_ specialist of their small search party, and perhaps their only hope of finding Starsky in this infinite, arduous landscape.

Kemosabe lets out a mellifluous whine, then snuffles his face with a cool, blunt nose, as if soothing him. He tucks Kemosabe’s head under his chin and hugs the Malamute, burying his face in the dog’s fur. It’s so soft and _warm_. It’s no wonder Starsky wants a pet dog. Starsky’s always had a weak spot for pooches.

Starsky.

 _Starsky_.

“Did _Starsky_ say anything to him?” he asks Greene, after lifting his head to look at the forest ranger on his left.

Greene shakes her head.

“Gary said Detective Starsky didn’t say a word. Seemed to let Detective D’Amato do all the talking while he sat in the car with the door open. Until you fellas came along, Gary thought they were close friends. He said that when they started off on the trail to the campground, Detective D’Amato had his arm around Detective Starsky’s shoulders the whole time until he couldn’t see them anymore.”

Hutch’s arms unconsciously tauten around Kemosabe’s compact, heavy-boned body. He glowers at the snow on the ground, his head moving slowly from side to side in repudiation of what he’s just heard. No … _no_ , something’s _wrong_ here. According to Simmons and Diaz, Starsky and D’Amato constantly _clashed_ with each other. They were work partners, but they weren’t _friends_ , much less _close_ friends.

What the hell was D’Amato _up_ to, alleging that he and Starsky were just pals going _camping_ to an unsuspecting forest ranger and then showing up, less than twenty-four hours and dozens of miles later, at the Metro all bloody and gibbering about being attacked by goons in ski masks in an abandoned theater? Why didn’t Starsky _say_ anything, and just consent to D’Amato _leading_ him around like a ... like a _meek_ and _tamed_ creature?

That’s not Starsky. That’s not Starsky at all.

“Starsky _hates_ leaving the city,” he murmurs, still staring at the snow. “He hates doing anything that involves nature. He couldn’t even stand staying a few nights at our captain’s holiday lodge in the mountains, and the lodge had all the facilities of a modern home.”

“Not the camping type?” Greene asks.

“Not at all. He wouldn’t even go camping with _me_ , and I’m … I was … _I’m_ his _best friend_. He and D’Amato did _not_ get along.”

“So on top of being adverse to doing any sort of nature activities, Detective Starsky didn’t even _like_ this fella?”

“Yeah. I’d get it if D’Amato and Starsky came up here as part of their undercover work,” Callahan says to Greene, frowning. “But Captain Lisner – their captain – he told them just yesterday morning that they were going to be pulled out of their mission today. You add that to the equation –“

“And we have one _shady_ situation with Detective D’Amato as the main _suspect_ ,” Greene says.

“Why did he lie to us?” Hutch asks, shaking his head a second time. Kemosabe is sniffing his face again, and he lets the Malamute lick his chin. “Why did he leave Starsky up here?”

“He’s gotta be _dirty_ , Hutch. He’s _gotta_ be the Narco mole Simmons’ snitch talked about.”

Hutch glances at Callahan and says, “Even if he is, what reason would he have to harm or – or _kill_ Starsky? He and Starsky didn’t even _know_ each other until _two months_ ago. And Lisner even said that they worked well together. Well … at least on their first undercover job.”

“Maybe Starsky found out he’s dirty. That’s a pretty good motive right there.”

Hutch hugs Kemosabe again, his glower at the snow even more fierce. D’Amato, that fucking _bastard_. He should have given in to his gut instincts and beaten the fucker’s face in when he had half a chance.

“But if that’s the case, why did Detective Starsky come up here with him in the first place?” Greene asks Callahan while squeezing Hutch’s left shoulder in consolation. “There’re many easier ways to kill a man than to abandon him on a mountain in winter. If his motive for bringing Detective Starsky up here was to kill him, it’s a _lot_ of hassle to go through just to do that. And on top of that, at least one forest ranger’s seen them together in the area. He’d be pretty foolish to let that slide if he was going to _kill_ somebody.”

Callahan shrugs and says, “It’s all I can come up with right now. I think his plan, whatever it might have been originally, didn’t go like he thought it would,” Callahan says, his expression grim. “I think if it did, he wouldn’t have shown up at the Metro with that head wound … and your fellow ranger wouldn’t be alive today.”

Greene’s lips tighten into a thin line. Then she replies, “If he could kill a _cop_ , he’d kill a forest ranger just as easily.”

“Yeah.”

At that moment, a buzzing noise emits from inside Greene’s jacket. It’s her walkie-talkie, and now a man’s voice is broadcasting from it, requesting her acknowledgement of his call. As Greene answers it, Hutch rests his elbows on his knees and covers his face with his hands, his mind going around and round in circles as he imagines Starsky with D’Amato’s arm around his shoulders, traipsing up into the mountains. It doesn’t make a lick of _sense_ to him that Starsky would do that, that Starsky would let D’Amato _touch_ him that way and for so long. In front of a total stranger too. A _male_ stranger. In _public_.

Even in grief, Starsky would only let him hug him for precious seconds in front of other people, be it an arm around that stocky torso or those broad shoulders. Touches were even more evanescent, though frequent. For D’Amato, of all the _shitty_ people in existence, to be able to put his arm around Starsky’s shoulders and walk with Starsky so _closely_ , in front of a stranger in the middle of _nowhere_ … the only possibility for that Hutch can think of is …

“That bastard. That _fucking bastard_ ,” he whispers to himself.

“Hutch?”

He doesn’t reply Callahan, too embedded in his recollection of an ailing Starsky, a sallow-faced, perspiring and enervated Starsky who had meager hours to live and urgently required an antidote to the lethal toxin that had been mistakenly injected into his veins by an ex-con under the orders of a vengeful mad chemist. As the toxin affected Starsky more and more, Starsky became feebler, tripping whenever cramps hit, sometimes even crumpling onto the ground from the agony. Hutch had to help Starsky sit or stand up after such spasms, and Starsky would clutch at him, at his arm or jacket while he held Starsky against his body.

He’d had to support Starsky with an arm around Starsky’s shoulders as well, when Starsky couldn’t stay standing on his own.

“D’Amato _drugged_ him,” he whispers louder, this time to Callahan and over Greene talking into her walkie-talkie. “That’s why Starsky was so … _compliant_. That’s why Starsky didn’t _say_ or _do_ anything. He _couldn’t_.”

He feels Callahan’s hand squeezing his right shoulder.

“It’s possible, Hutch. We won’t know for sure until we find him. And we will.”

Hutch continues to cover his face with his hands, unresponsive towards Callahan and Kemosabe nudging his left forearm.

“That was Vincent back at base,” Greene says, referring to Forest Ranger Vincent Newsom who’s manning the rangers station’s central communication system. “He’s tried to reach Captain Dobey several times but Captain Dobey’s not at the Metro. He was told your captain’s accompanied an injured police officer to the hospital. He’ll try again soon.”

“Must be D’Amato,” Callahan says.

“Vincent also said that the San Dimas Rescue Team arrived about ten minutes ago and is on its way up, and that the LA County Fire Department has an EMS helicopter on standby.”

Callahan lets out a sigh that fogs the air.

“The rescue team will be an hour behind us.”

“Yep. Unless you want to stay here on the trail until they reach –“

“No,” Hutch says, jerking upright, causing Kemosabe to step back and Callahan and Greene to sit up straight too. “We go on.”

Greene gazes at Hutch’s face, then gives him a spirited smile.

“Okay. We go on.”

And so, with Greene in front, Callahan on his left and Kemosabe leading them, Hutch slogs onward in the cold, remorseless snow, one focused step after another. From time to time, Kemosabe will scamper to his side and trot with him, and he will lean down to scratch the Malamute between the ears or ruffle its fur. Without any other clue from Finlay apart from trekking to the old cabin at the summit of Mount Islip, their best chance of finding Starsky once they’re there is Kemosabe’s nose … and Starsky’s black toque that’s in the right inner pocket of his winter coat.

He’d discovered it beneath the backseat of the Torino before they got into Greene’s SUV. Greene had asked him if he had any item of clothing belonging to Starsky that Starsky’s recently worn and he’d almost wept upon realizing that he didn’t, that he had _nothing_ that Kemosabe could use to find Starsky and then he’d scrambled into the Torino, rummaging in the glove compartment and between and under the seats like a madman. Concealed from Callahan’s and Greene’s view behind the driver’s seat, he _had_ wept as he held the toque in his hands, just for an instant.

He had personally picked this black toque for Starsky years ago, when they went shopping for clothes to ‘leave an impression the streets will never forget’, as Starsky had stated it. They were finally plainclothes cops, and Starsky wanted to look _good_ on their first day. Starsky took an immediate liking to the toque, donning it before Hutch even finished saying, “Starsk, I think this’ll look _great_ on you.” Starsky had then vanished into another section of the apparel store while he leafed through some turtlenecks hanging on a rail.

“Hutch! Look at _this!_ ”

He turned around and there Starsky was, parading around in that bulky, double-knit wool sweater with its unique sirdar pattern like he was the king of the fashion runway.

“What do ya think, Hutch?”

“It looks like something your grandma would knit for you,” he’d replied in amusement and, heh, it must have been fate that Starsky took that as a compliment and said, “Okay, I’m getting it.”

Yeah, he’d thought the sweater was goofy at first, but when Starsky wore it on their first day as plainclothes cops, Starsky had looked … _gorgeous_. Like Starsky was truly meant to own and wear that sweater. Like Starsky was meant to own and wear that sweater that day for _him_ to see, to touch and _feel_ and god, the way Starsky had gazed back at him that day, gazed and touched and _smiled_ at him. It was like they’d both found something they never knew was missing in them in each other, something greater than themselves, something encapsulated in a four letter word that Hutch will only believe in when Starsky is the one who says it to him.

 _God_ , the way Starsky had looked when Starsky had worn nothing except that sweater one year later, after they’d made love on the floor of his old canal cottage’s kitchen –

“Okay, fellas, let’s take another break.”

Callahan doesn’t protest at Greene’s suggestion and neither does Hutch. They plod to the nearest tree and prop themselves up against it, out of breath, sweating in spite of the chill. Everything around them appears the same to Hutch: Snow, snow, barren trees burdened with snow, more snow, more barren trees projecting out of the mountain slope like the frozen, wilted hands of sleeping giants deep in the earth, snow, snow, _snow_. Over two hours on the mountain, and already he is weary and a bit lightheaded and cold.

Starsky’s been up here for more than eight – no, make that almost _nine_ _hours_. Alone, deserted by a shithead of a _partner_ who may very well have _hurt_ Starsky before fleeing the area. Deserted even by a mob boss’ ruthless henchman who murdered an unknown player in this vile game and undoubtedly _reveled_ in it.

So who _is_ the person that Hans slew? Why was Hans following D’Amato and Starsky? Has Finlay been tracking and spying on Starsky all this time, like he did with Stacey? And if Finlay had been honest about _liking_ him, if Finlay really does wish to get in his good graces, why didn’t Finlay just command Hans to bring Starsky back to the city and save him all this _trouble?_

What if Finlay told the truth about everything _except_ Starsky’s condition? What if Starsky’s _cold_ because he’s … already _dead?_

So many goddamn _questions_ , and he can’t answer a single one until he finds Starsky. _Alive_.

“How far?” he asks Greene between huffs of visible exhalations.

Greene is kneeling on the ground nearby and gazing up at the overcast sky from under the rim of her hat, her expression somber. Kemosabe stands beside her, wagging that fuzzy tail and glancing here and there.

“Another forty-five minutes to an hour of hiking. I’m really hoping that it doesn’t rain.”

“Oh, man. Tell me these winter coats are waterproof,” Callahan says.

“They are. But nobody likes walking in rain in the winter,” Greene replies, her expression still somber. “I’m also _really_ hoping that Detective Starsky isn’t hurt and is able to keep himself warm. Forecast says the temperature’s going to _drop_ once the sun goes down.”

Hutch looks up at the sky too, at the accumulating, bulbous clouds above them. Is Starsky also looking up at the sky right now, waiting for someone, _anyone_ , to find him and bring him back to civilization? Is Starsky waiting for _him_ , even though they haven’t seen or spoken to each other for so long?

Is Starsky still hanging onto that narrow beam of hope, hope for a sunnier future of a life together with him, like he is?

“I’m coming, Starsky,” Hutch murmurs to the heavens, standing strong, his head held high. “I’m coming, buddy. Wait for me.”

The trek to the summit resumes in a silence that is interspersed with Kemosabe’s haunting howls that echo across the mountain range and its quiescent forests and valleys and Greene communicating via walkie-talkie with Forest Ranger Newsom back at base, the two forest rangers on the Big Cienega Trail and the San Dimas Rescue Team. Forest Ranger Newsom has contacted Dobey and alerted him about the situation, and last they spoke, Dobey mentioned he’ll be warning IA about D’Amato, contacting the LA County Fire Department and driving up to the Crystal Lake Recreation Center as soon as he can. Forest Rangers Gary Stewart and Ian Powell have yet to bump into anyone on their way to the peak of Mount Islip, while the Rescue Team has dispersed along the Crystal Lake basin in the event that Starsky is on the move and is no longer anywhere near the summit. They, too, have yet to bump into Starsky.

It’s a good time as any for Hutch to learn to pray.

As he marches up the mountain trail, he squints at the snow around his feet, but what he sees is Starsky sitting next to him in his LTD, eyes shut, head bowed and whispering to himself. They’re in a murky alley on 4th and Main, near a club that will soon be raided by a team of cops for drugs and prostitution. He and Starsky had been enlisted as part of the team due to manpower being siphoned by a drastic wave of flu. Moreover, it’s their very first large-scale raid as plainclothes cops, and Hutch feels Starsky’s nervousness as his own.

“What were you whispering?” he asks Starsky after Starsky has raised his head and opened those big blue eyes.

“A prayer for protection,” Starsky says, sending him a small smile. “My Ma taught it to me when I was a boy.”

“Yeah?” he says, smiling back. “How does it go?”

Starsky catches him unawares by drawing him close, into those muscular arms and pressing the sides of their faces together, his eyes alongside Starsky’s nose. Starsky’s lips are against his cheek, like a kiss but not a kiss. Then, Starsky is murmuring the prayer again, devotedly, lovingly, straight into his heart that still remembers it over five years later and now, he murmurs the prayer for Starsky to a god he has never believed in, a god he _wants_ to believe in if it means Starsky will be _safe_ :

“In the name of Adonai,  
the God of Israel:  
May the angel, Michael, be at his right,  
and the angel, Gabriel, be at his left,  
and in front of him the angel, Uriel,  
and behind him the angel, Raphael,  
and above his head  
the Sh'khinah.”

Callahan glances at him as he does so, but doesn’t make any remark. Greene, conversely, turns her head back to look at him and asks, “Is Detective Starsky Jewish?”

“Yeah. Not a practicing one, but yeah, he is.”

“That’s a Jewish prayer for protection at night. My brother-in-law’s Jewish. Taught his kids the same prayer,” Greene says, nodding once. “It’s a fitting one, Detective Hutchinson.”

Hutch glances up at the sky once again. It’s become darker, gloomier. Colder. The sun will be setting soon.

“Detective Hutchinson, may I have the toque, please?”

Greene is stretching out her left hand behind her and towards him, and he pulls out the toque from inside his coat and passes it to her.

“Kemosabe! Come here, boy!”

Hutch and Callahan halt in their steps as Greene kneels down to let the Alaskan Malamute sniff the toque and become acquainted with Starsky’s scent. The dog’s tail wags enthusiastically.

“We’re about half a mile from the summit, and there’s lots of wind,” Greene says to them, petting Kemosabe’s furry head. “Kemosabe’s sense of smell is excellent. He can track scents as far as a mile on a good day.” Greene stands up and then says to the Malamute, “Okay, Kemo, _search!_ ”

Kemosabe breaks into an exuberant gallop up the trail, and the trio of human members of the team jog after Kemosabe, their vigor renewed by the dog’s single-mindedness. Hutch grins to himself even as he pants from the exertion, so damn _elated_ that they’re on a path heading straight to Starsky, at last. _Yes!_ Starsky _is_ here! _YES!_

Kemosabe remains on the trail for the next fifteen minutes, decelerating to a laidback gait and glancing back at them whenever they get too far behind. Greene lets Kemosabe smell the toque twice more, and a couple of minutes after the second time, the Malamute suddenly deviates from the trail and hurtles into the forest to the left of the trail, past an anomalous pile of rocks that grabs Greene’s attention.

After calling for Kemosabe to return to her side, Greene points at the pile of rocks and says, “That’s no natural formation.”

Indeed, the rocks of varying sizes and shape appear to be stacked against a tree, almost a foot high. Snow covers the top of the pile, indicating that it’s been there no less than a day. The absence of rocks elsewhere in the vicinity makes the pile even more noticeable.

“It’s a _marker_ ,” Callahan says, glowering at the rocks.

Hutch glances at Callahan, then at Greene, his eyes mirroring the newborn determination in theirs. A marker … it must have been a marker for D’Amato, or a marker D’Amato had built himself in advance, before dragging Starsky up here.

They’re getting closer to Starsky!

“Okay, Kemo, get another good whiff!” Greene says as she lets Kemosabe smell the toque one more time. “Now, _SEARCH!_ ”

The Malamute dashes further into the forest, tossing clusters of snow into the air in its wake. Hutch follows the fastest, weaving between trees, almost falling flat on his face at one point when the slope becomes very steep. Callahan is right behind him when that happens, and if he hadn’t balanced himself, Callahan would have barreled into him and toppled them both and he does _not_ want to think about the painful consequences of that. Greene is appositely light-footed and swift, hardly breathless, helping Callahan up once when Callahan stumbles over a tree root under the snow. Callahan had to trade in his sneakers for a pair of Newsom’s resistant boots before they set off from the rangers station, and is now certainly glad he did.

“Oh, _man_ … my shoes would have been … _done for_ ,” Callahan wheezes as the land begins to level out again.

Hutch says nothing in reply, too busy catching his breath. There are many more trees here. Leafless, snow-loaded trees and rocky outcroppings, an ideal place for a clandestine meeting. Or a murder.

“Good boy, Kemo! _Good boy!_ ”

Kemosabe is no longer running. The Malamute’s sitting on its hind legs amidst a crowded assembly of tall trees about fifty feet ahead of them, howling at the sky. There’s something on the snow next to Kemosabe, something much larger than Kemosabe, something dark blue and glossy … like polyester with an oil coating.

It’s not something. It’s _someone_.

“Oh my god.”

Hutch doesn’t know whether he is the one who said that or not. He tears across the snow towards the motionless body sprawled at the foot of one of the trees, running ahead of Callahan and Greene, his heart pounding like a jackhammer, his breaths harsh.

“Oh my god … oh my god, no …”

He sees the blood first, a pool of it around the right side of the person’s head, saturating the snow a bright red. It’s stemming from a head wound, a long, deep gash from the right temple through short, dark curls and … and oh god, _ohgodohgod_ , it’s _Starsky_. It’s Starsky in a zipped up, dark blue winter coat and jeans and _sneakers_ , that _fucker_ D’Amato made Starsky trek all the way up _here_ in _sneakers_ and Starsky’s face is so _pale_ and those stunning eyes are closed and Starsky’s lips are so _blue_ and _oh god,_ _no, Starsky_ –

“No, no, no, no, _no_ …”

Something wet and scorching is spilling down Hutch’s cheeks. The iciness of the snow blisters his skin through his jeans as he falls to his knees beside Starsky, next to Kemosabe snuffling at Starsky’s coat. Starsky is so _weightless_ in his arms, like a little bird that has lost its wings, and Starsky’s head is lolling limply on his forearm and no, _no_ , damnit, no, he’s too late, _he’s too late_ and just like Gillian, his lovely Gillian whom he’d found spread-eagled and unmoving just like _this_ , Starsky is –

“Detective Hutchinson, let me take a look at him, okay?”

There are other hands on Starsky’s head now, bare hands examining the gash and all that _blood_ on the right side of Starsky’s face and then slipping beneath the collar of Starsky’s black turtleneck, and Hutch begins to rock back and forth, gathering Starsky tightly against his body, shaking his head from side to side and _no_ , he doesn’t want to hear it –

“Detective Hutchinson, he’s –“

“No, _no_ –“

“Detective Hutchinson, _listen_ to me –“

“ _No, NO_ –“

 _No, he DOESN’T want to HEAR IT_ –

“ _Detective Hutchinson_ , he’s alive! _He’s ALIVE!_ ”

From somewhere far away, Hutch hears the flapping of immense, holy wings and senses the graze of celestial feathers across his back. He goes still, blinking as sunlight – oh, beautiful _sunlight_ – cascades down upon him through a momentary fissure in the clouds, and more scorching wetness spills down his face. His smiling face.

Greene is also smiling.

“He’s lost quite a lot of blood, but the cold’s a _boon_. Froze up his wound and stopped it from bleeding more.”

Greene has taken out a first aid kit from her backpack and is unfurling a spool of bandages and swathing Starsky’s head with it.

“Hey, told ya we’d find him, didn’t I?”

Now a large hand is giving the back of Hutch’s neck an uplifting squeeze. He glances up to see Callahan smiling down at him and maybe, maybe this is what it feels like to be touched by god, maybe this is what god _looks_ like, a compassionate, sheltering bastion of hope against encroaching darkness. He returns the smile, then gazes at Starsky again, caressing Starsky’s cheek and lower jaw with the fingers of his left hand. He doesn’t care that Callahan and Greene are observing as he kisses Starsky on the forehead once, over the bandages.

Starsky’s alive.

Starsky’s going to be okay.

Right?

As Callahan meanders away from them, Greene says to Hutch, “I’m going to check his hands and feet for frostbite.”

At Hutch’s nod, she cautiously removes the gloves from Starsky’s hands and inspects the fingers in particular. She frowns, her brown eyes tapering, and when she removes the shoes and socks from Starsky’s feet and inspects the toes, her eyes taper even more.

“Is it bad?” Hutch asks, reflexively constricting his embrace around Starsky.

“I hope it hasn’t become second degree frostbite or worse. But either way, we have to get him out of here,” she replies with a calm tone as she puts Starsky’s socks and shoes back on, and Hutch’s euphoria at finding Starsky is doused by the pall of fright.

From what he recalls of his first aid training, first degree frostbite already has the potential to cause long-term damage such as sensitivity to head and cold for months afterwards. Second degree frostbite can cause _permanent_ damage, and third and fourth degree frostbite can cause the sort of permanent damage that will terminate Starsky’s police career posthaste. Who can grip a gun without any _fingers?_

Hutch elevates Starsky onto his lap, placing Starsky’s head on his shoulder and tugging the hood of Starsky’s coat over and around it. The brim of the hood is smeared with dried blood. Greene takes out a woolen blanket from her backpack and together, she and Hutch enfold it around Starsky’s legs and feet to keep it off the snow.

“Holy shit.”

Both Hutch and Greene glance at Callahan who is now about twenty-five feet away from them, standing with his back towards them and staring at something on the ground. Kemosabe scuttles over to Callahan’s side but then stops about six feet away from Callahan, growling at that something.

“Joey?” Hutch says.

Callahan swivels around and says, “There’s another _body_ here.”

Greene walks over to Callahan and then she, too, stares down at the body that seems cloaked from Hutch’s view in the snow. Maybe the person has a white winter coat on. He can’t tell from where he’s sitting, and it’s getting darker and darker.

“Good god _almighty_ ,” Greene says. “What happened to his _head?_ ”

“Careful, Imogen. Don’t step there.”

“Is that … is that his _brain?_ ”

Hutch’s eyes widen at the revulsion in Greene’s voice and at her last uttered word. The person’s _brain_ can be seen? What the fuck _happened_ to the guy?

“Joey?” Hutch says louder, and Callahan trudges back and kneels beside him, blue eyes stark and face ashy with disgust. “Who is it?”

Just seconds later, Hutch realizes what a silly question it is. Callahan answers it anyway.

“We’ll have to identify him via fingerprints. His head’s … his head’s _crushed_ so bad that his _skull_ split open.”

“Holy _shit_.” When Callahan glances pointedly at him, his jaw sags and he mumbles, “Hans killed him.”

“Yeah. Horrible way to die.”

“Detectives!” Greene calls out.

They turn their heads in unison to see a gun dangling from Greene’s gloved right hand. It’s an M1911 pistol with a six-inch long silencer. Flecks of snow are stuck to its barrel and handle.

“I think we’ve just found the cause of Detective Starsky’s injury,” she says, scowling at the gun and then at the corpse at her feet. “This was no _meeting_ with a contact. This was an _execution_.”

Callahan stands up and asks Greene, “You got any plastic bags in your backpack?”

“Yep. Look in the left side pocket. You should find some black ones in there.”

Greene walks back to them with Kemosabe at her side and the gun in her hand while Callahan fishes out one plastic bag to contain the weapon/evidence. The gun’s silencer lures Hutch gaze. Whoever the dead gunman was, he was no amateur. M1911 pistols require a threaded barrel to mount the silencer, and the silencer appears to be one specialized piece of equipment, sleek and skillfully manufactured. Hundreds of dollars at minimum.

Who hired D’Amato to lead Starsky to the gunman? Who hired the gunman to kill Starsky? And _why?_

“Now we know D’Amato’s role in this whole mess.”

Callahan has cleared the snow away from the gnarled roots of the tree nearby and is sitting on them, the plastic bag with the gun inside held in his right hand. Callahan’s expression is stern. Angry.

Hutch imagines that his expression is probably similar.

“We still don’t know who the assassin was working for. Who D’Amato’s working for,” Hutch says, gazing down at Starsky’s face. Starsky hasn’t moved or made a single noise. It disturbs Hutch terribly. If Starsky’s been unconscious all these hours, Starsky may be suffering from a severe concussion. Or he may still be under the influence of whatever drugs D’Amato fed him, if D’Amato had done that.

“Dobey said he’d tell IA about D’Amato. I’m thinking Simonetti and Dryden and the rest of IA are probably kicking his ass right now and making him talk.”

Greene is speaking into her walkie-talkie again, standing about a dozen feet away from Hutch and Callahan. Kemosabe is now at Callahan’s side, sitting on hind legs, enjoying Callahan’s one-handed petting.

“It’ll be nothing compared to the ass-kicking _I’ll_ give him,” Hutch says, smirking callously, stroking Starsky’s arm.

Callahan also smirks, sharing his sentiment.

“A-fucking-men,” Callahan replies, and they somehow scour up the verve to chuckle although they’re exhausted to the bones and a ghastly corpse is just dozens of feet away.

“We’re going to be okay,” Hutch murmurs into Starsky’s curls, cuddling Starsky all the more closer to him. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

When Hutch thinks back to this portentous day in the decades to come, it isn’t Starsky’s shallow breaths against his neck and Starsky’s eyelashes against his skin that he’ll recall most as Forest Rangers Stewart and Powell arrive at the scene and assist Greene and Callahan with cordoning off the corpse of the mysterious gunman for the BCPD coroner and forensic team on their way from the city. It isn’t the time the sun actually sinks under the horizon and plunges them into night, or when he begins to hear the whirring blades of the enormous EMS helicopter of the LA County Fire Department hovering above them or when he sees the paramedics rappelling down with a litter in which Starsky is carefully strapped and buoyed up to the helicopter. He won’t recall how he and Callahan are transported from the ground to the helicopter either, or when the helicopter coasts back towards the bright lights of the city, to the nearest hospital, to sanctuary.

What Hutch will recall most is leaning over Starsky as the helicopter voyages through the night sky, whispering words of love … and seeing Starsky open those big, _stunning_ blue eyes to slits, to smile at him.

 

& & & & & &

 

Hutch hates the smell of hospitals. He hates that acrid smell that leaves a coating of sourness on the tongue and takes with it the sweetness of refuge, of the conviction that everything’s going to be just fine, everything’s going to go back to normal. The smell makes him want to retch. Scratch at his neck, his throat to get rid of it. It’s artificial. _Unnatural_.

It reminds him of all the days he’s been in a hospital, be it as an incapacitated patient or as a fretful visitor who must loiter in the waiting area while Starsky is the incapacitated patient being treated instead.

It reminds him of all the days Starsky’s been in one, all the _months_ after the shooting in the Metro car park, of Starsky lying so still and silent on a bed enclosed by impersonal, monolithic medical paraphernalia, as if Starsky had been robbed of all words, thoughts and feelings. Of _soul_ , that impish, eternally young soul that had hooked his own from the instant their blue eyes locked and their hands touched for the very first time.

He’s never let go of Starsky hand since, he knows that now.

Starsky’s never let go of his heart since. He knows that now, too.

Starsky, here in his arms again, lying so still and silent under the blankets and between his legs on the hospital bed. So _alive_.

“You going to wake up for me now, big guy?” Hutch whispers into Starsky’s hair, nuzzling the thick curls. A nurse had to shave a strip of them off the right side of Starsky’s head so the doctor could minister to the deep laceration there, but with the long bandage overlaying said laceration, it is next to impossible to tell of the missing hair. A nurse had also washed Starsky’s hair, and it smells of lavender. Hutch vastly prefers it to the smell of the hospital.

Starsky doesn’t answer him.

It is Callahan, slouched in a chair next to the bed, who does, with what sounds like a fusion of a snore and a snort. Hutch smiles at Callahan to his left, amused at the young man’s ability to slumber so soundly in such an uncomfortable, unpadded seat. Sitting upright, no less.

Ah, the benefits of youth.

Starsky’s hospital room is a single, with a single bed, a single chair and a single ceiling light that’s off. The lone source of illumination is the single, huge bedside lamp on the single bedside table. Its luminosity is warm and golden like sunshine. When Hutch glances with tired eyes at the single clock on the bedside table, he notes that it’s almost half past nine, three hours since the helicopter rescue from Mount Islip.

Damn, he hadn’t even thanked Greene and the other forest rangers for all their assistance. He’ll certainly do that when Starsky’s discharged from the hospital.

Yes, _when_.

Starsky’s going to be just fine, to go back to normal. That’s what the doctor told him. That, incredibly, in spite of the hours of exposure to the chill, Starsky’s frostbite is only first degree. Temporary. Full recovery is a hundred percent safe bet.

Thank fuck, as Diaz would say. Thank Adonai, as Starsky would have said long ago. Thank the angels, as those of mystical beliefs would say.

“Thank you,” Hutch whispers, to everyone and everything that had tipped the scales for Starsky from death to life.

He hears their acknowledgement in every long, easy breath that Starsky takes.

It is twenty minutes past ten when an embodiment of god appears in the room and lumbers up to the bed, a portly god in a light brown plaid suit and a dark brown tie with beige diamonds embellishing it. Hutch is incapable of looking this god in the eye. He is ashamed of himself, for he knows that he has disappointed this god.

“What did I _tell_ you, Hutchinson?” the god says to him with a low, resigned voice.

Again, it is Callahan who answers a question not asked of him, with a jerk of one leg and then a full-bodied jolt when Callahan becomes aware of someone else in the room.

“Captain!” Callahan says, but before he can get up from the chair, the god replies, “It’s okay, Callahan. Sit down. You’ve had a rough day. All _three_ of you.”

“Captain,” Hutch says also in greeting.

The left side of the bed sinks as Dobey sits on it, facing them. In the light of the bedside lamp, Dobey’s expression of relief is unmistakable.

“Spoke to a nurse just now. She told me Starsky’s being kept overnight for observation because of his concussion.”

“Yes, sir,” Callahan says, sitting straighter on the chair, wholly awake. “Doctor said the bullet grazed the side of his head, but it might as well have been a blow with a hammer.”

“If the …” Hutch swallows perceptibly. “If the gun had been aimed an _inch_ more to the right –“

“Yeah,” Dobey says simply, and it is enough. Dobey places his hand on Starsky’s left shin, on top of the blankets, in a gesture of empathy.

“Sir, what’s the status on D’Amato?” Callahan asks.

Dobey’s facial features contort into a censorious frown, though not towards the younger detective.

“I accompanied him to Mount Sinai this afternoon. Simonetti and Dryden from IA showed up just after his treatment and took him with them. He’s in their hands now.”

“He’s _dirty_ , isn’t he?” Callahan says, blue eyes blazing.

Dobey sighs and scratches the side of his neck.

“I talked to him in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. He insisted that thugs in ski masks really had attacked him and Starsky at the Savoy very early this morning, and that he doesn’t know what happened to Starsky after that.”

“He’s _lying_. A forest ranger at the Crystal Lake Recreation Center saw him and Starsky in the Torino yesterday afternoon. D’Amato told him that they were just _friends_ going _camping_ , which is _bullshit_. And Starsky wasn’t at the Savoy! He was on a damn _mountain_ almost _fifty miles_ away!”

Hutch smiles to himself at the vehemence in Callahan’s tone. Callahan will be just like him and Starsky in no time, may the good Lord have mercy on Dobey.

Dobey glowers at them, Callahan first then Hutch, and says, “So. Which one of you is going to _explain_ how the hell you ended up at the _San Gabriel Mountains_ and _didn’t tell me?_ ”

Hutch and Callahan share an eloquent glance. Then, Callahan says, “An … informant caught up with us as we headed for the Savoy.”

“An informant,” Dobey drawls, mien unreadable.

“Yeah, Cap,” Hutch says, hugging Starsky tighter. “He’s … he’s a mob boss. The Fin. We didn’t – _don’t_ trust him, but Starsky’s _life_ was at stake. I was the one who made the decision to go up there based on the info we got. Joey had nothing to do with it.”

“It was the _right_ call, sir. And the radio was busted,” Callahan interjects, “D’Amato busted it from underneath, made it look on the outside like it was working. Until you try to use it. That’s why we couldn’t contact you until we were at the rangers station at the Recreation Center.”

For half a minute, Dobey’s glower is all Hutch senses upon his face. He stares at a spot near Dobey’s left hand on the top blanket.

“Let me get this straight.” Dobey’s voice is even lower now, edged with steel. “Your _informant_ was a _mobster_. And instead of _consulting_ with me _immediately_ upon receiving information about Starsky’s real whereabouts, you decided to go ahead on your _own_ , without any _backup_ , despite finding out that your radio was _busted_.”

“But _Starsky’s_ –“

“I _know_ that, Hutchinson!” Dobey barks, and Hutch and Callahan grimace. Dobey clears his throat, then says more quietly, “All the more _reason_ for you to contact me first before going off like some _half-cocked gun!_ ”

“I’m not sorry,” Hutch says, looking Dobey in the eye this time, expression uncompromising.

Dobey huffs loudly.

“Do you know how _close_ you came to having IA hunt _you_ down too? When you shot out of the Metro car park like a _madman_ , you damn well near _ran_ over _three_ cops! And the owner of a white box truck reported your speed demon _ass_ to Traffic Violations, claiming you nearly _killed_ him by turning on a red light!”

Callahan grimaces again.

Hutch and Dobey stare at each other for ten long seconds.

“Would you have let me go if I’d gone to you first?” Hutch asks, his gaze unflinching.

“After _verifying_ the information, yes.”

“That could have taken _hours_. Hours we would have _wasted_ and cost Starsky his _life!_ The whole goddamn _city_ is free to report and sue me for – for _traffic violations!_ And you know what, I don’t even care if those three cops want to run _me_ over in return! All I care about is that Starsky’s alive! That he’s _safe!_ ”

Hutch and Dobey continue to stare at each other, and then, like sunlight diffusing through the verdant canopy of a forest, Dobey’s strict expression softens into something akin to affection, to understanding. To respect.

“You really love him, don’t you?”

_Captain, you can’t even begin to know just how much I do._

Dobey gesticulates his left hand in Hutch’s direction, then adds with a small smile, “Is that why you’re acting as Starsky’s _second mattress?_ ”

Both Hutch and Callahan smile at Dobey’s good-humored quip.

“Starsky awoke for a very short while on the helicopter,” Hutch replies, gazing down at the sleeping man in his embrace. “He recognized me. Held my hand. Whenever I moved away, he’d become extremely agitated and call for me. The doctor couldn’t even get near him unless he could touch me.” Hutch caresses the crown of Starsky’s head. “He was … still trapped in that moment. When the _assassin_ shot him.”

“Yeah, Captain, what’s the status on _him?_ ”

“Last I heard, the forensics team and coroner are still on Mount Islip. The cold helped to preserve the body and footprints in the snow.”

Callahan glances down at the boots on his feet, then glances up and says, “Man, I forgot I’m wearing Forest Ranger Newsom’s boots.”

“What happened to your shoes?” Dobey asks.

“They’re still at the rangers station. Along with the Torino.”

Dobey nods and says, “Okay. Make sure you let the forensics team know soon as possible so they can eliminate your footprints from the crime scene. You too, Hutch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, Cap.”

“And you’re off duty for the next four days. Both of you. That’s an _order_.”

“Thank you, sir,” Callahan says, smiling.

“By the way, did Captain Lisner come by?”

“Yeah, he did,” Callahan replies, prompting Hutch to glance at Callahan with surprise. “About two hours ago. Checked in on Starsky and then left.”

Hutch blinks. Ah, Lisner must have visited while he was napping. Very likely at the Metro right now dealing with IA and his insubordinate detective. There won’t be any sleep for the captain of Narco tonight.

There probably won’t be any sleep for the captain of Homicide tonight either, for Dobey says to them as he stands up, “Alright. I’m headed back to the Metro. If you need me, just call my office. Let me know when Starsky wakes up. And Hutchinson?”

“Captain?”

“We _will_ talk about you and The Fin. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Hutch says with no sullenness, and Dobey nods in approval. Hutch had intended to do so anyway. Just a matter of time before he spills the beans to Dobey.

“Sir!” Callahan jumps to his feet, expression optimistic. “I’d like to go back to the Metro too. Do you mind if I hitch a ride with you?”

Dobey gazes at Callahan, then says, “You know IA has D’Amato in their custody.”

Callahan is undaunted.

“I know. I’d like to give my statement while my memory is still really fresh. Sir. And my going back has nothing whatsoever to do with that asshole whose face I’d like to bash in. Honest.”

Hutch sees one end of Dobey’s lips twitch with amusement. When Dobey turns to the point a finger at him and say, “You’re a _bad_ influence,” he chortles, his eyes aglow.

“Is that a yes, sir?” Callahan asks, straight-faced.

Dobey angles his head towards the door, smiling overtly now.

“Thanks, Captain! You the man.”

“Don’t push it, Callahan.”

Callahan doesn’t leave right away with Dobey. Callahan lingers at the foot of the bed, gazing at Starsky with kind eyes old beyond his years.

“Joey?” Hutch murmurs.

“Hey, Hutch?” Callahan says, gazing into his eyes now. “I hope my partner will be someone just like you.”

There is a wealth of minutiae in that one sentence, of Callahan’s stanch admiration of him, of Callahan’s acceptance of the inevitable end of their brief albeit outstanding partnership. Of Callahan’s acceptance of Starsky’s place in his world. Before Hutch can articulate words of appreciation, Callahan is gone, inaudibly as the flapping of wings of angels, and the words remain within Hutch, warming him like no fire could. Callahan’s a good man. A good _friend_. One of the best.

For the next half hour, Hutch dozes, his back, neck and head buttressed by pillows against the headboard, his arms a loose encirclement around Starsky’s chest. He only opens his eyes when he feels Starsky roll onto his left side, elbow digging into his sternum.

“Starsky?”

His breath snags upon seeing Starsky’s eyelids flicker. Starsky’s eyelashes are as thick and lush as ever, sweeping the gradient of Starsky’s wan cheeks. Starsky’s eyes are as big and blue as ever, gleaming in the light of the bedside lamp, and when they fully open, they are as vivid as stars.

“Starsky?” Hutch murmurs again, then gasps at the sensation of gauze-bandaged fingers touching his face, outlining his nose and lips and cheeks as if they are the road map to paradise.

Starsky’s lips move, but no sound emanates from them.

“You have to speak louder, buddy. I can’t hear what you’re saying.”

Starsky’s eyelids flicker some more. Hutch bows his head to better hear and then, Starsky’s rasping voice is all Hutch hears and it is all that imbues Hutch’s heart.

“I’ve missed you … missed _us_.”

And there on his mental landscape of permafrost, Hutch watches from afar as the first crack emerges in the foundations of his towering ice fortress, as it zigzags an unstoppable path up one wall. This time, he welcomes it unequivocally. This time, he will not be rebuilding the fortress, not after he has learned the true meaning of strength. Of _freedom_.

“Oh, _Starsk_.”

The lump in his throat forbids him from speaking more and so, he lets his fingers speak in his stead, running them through Starsky’s curly hair, stroking Starsky’s lower jaw and right cheek. Starsky is still staring up at him. Smiling so tenderly and _devastatingly_ at him, as if the past five years of mere friendship had not come to pass. As if they’d never lived past that one extraordinary month, as if that month was _forever_ –

“NO! No … _no_ …”

Starsky rolling forcefully away from him, onto the left edge of the bed with his back towards him, strikes Hutch like a bucket of icy water over his head. Oh no, _oh no_ , it’s happening again, that _horrible_ night where everything ended and only its wretched shadow remained, taunting him for so many years later that Starsky will only ever be his best friend, his best friend and nothing _more_ –

“No … no, I _can’t_ …”

Starsky wriggles to a sitting position and then slides awkwardly down to the foot of the bed, as far away from Hutch as the debilitated man can get. Starsky takes the bottom blanket with him, bequeathing Hutch with wintry air and little else, causing the top blanket to bunch against the bed’s footboard.

“Starsky,” Hutch whispers, frozen in place, at Starsky facing away from him, back and shoulders hunched like the entire universe is perched upon them, crushing Starsky bit by bit.

“No, I can’t –“

Starsky’s voice is so frail, so _tiny_.

“ _Starsky_ , I –“

“You’re with _her_ now.”

With just four words, a dozen new cracks emerge in the foundations and on the walls of Hutch’s ice fortress, splintering the edifice beyond salvation … and Hutch, watching the impending demolition, rejoices.

“It was so perfect. Everything was so _perfect_ … and then I had to fuck it all up. I had to be a _coward_.”

Hutch’s lips part, primed to fervently argue against that.

_Give him space, Kenneth. Let him talk._

It is eccentrically appropriate that of all the voices he’d hear in his head at a time like this, it’s his Aunt Lil’s. The one person of his blood who had seen the little, lost boy inside the ireful, aggressive teenager and helped him grow into a man. The one person who had _listened_ to him, when no one else did.

“It was so good, what we had. Better than anything I’d ever felt in my life. It was … _everything_. Everything I ever wanted with someone, and I just had to fuck it all up by worrying what other people _think_.” Starsky sucks in an erratic breath. “I just … all I could think about was not losing you. About what the other guys would say about us if they found out, how they’d _treat_ us if they knew. Our careers would be _over_ before they even started. And you’d be os – ostri –“

“Ostracized?” Hutch murmurs, smiling softly as Starsky turns that head of short, thick curls towards him and gives him a shaky smile. Smiling as the first wall of his ice fortress crumbles and thaws.

“Yeah, ostracized.” Starsky looks away another time. “I didn’t want that for you. I didn’t want you to lose out on a great career ‘cause of me. Maybe – maybe it was just a _phase_ for you, ya know? Maybe you just _thought_ you – you _loved_ me ‘cause the se–” Starsky sucks in another breath. “’Cause it felt so good when we made love.”

_Ah, Starsk, I do love you. And it felt so good for me too. The best._

“I wanted to believe it was just a phase for _me_ too. I thought if I … _snapped_ you outta it, you’d realize it and _I’d_ realize it and we’d move on and everything would be _normal_ again. Just a couple a’ straight guys who – who _experimented_ and decided they liked having sex only with women. Straight guys who were gonna _marry_ women and have _kids_ and all that. You moved on … but _I_ couldn’t. I tried real hard, Hutch. Maybe it _looked_ like I did ‘cause I slept with as many women as I could and I _did_ love some of them … but I couldn’t move on. Couldn’t stop feeling the way I do for ya. Still _can’t_. It scares me so _bad_ sometimes, ya know that? How _deep_ it all goes, no matter how many years have gone by and how many people I went to bed with. Like, an _ocean_ without a bottom, and ya know how much I don’t like water.”

Hutch smiles softly at that as well.

“I do.”

“After I got shot and I had to spend all that time in the hospital and you were there, _every day_ , caring for me without expecting anything back … all of it just came rushing back. All the memories of that month we were _lovers_ , the _love_ we had, and that’s when I knew for sure. That I’d never be just a straight guy who’ll marry a lady and have kids. That even after knowing and loving the special women in my life, like Rosie, like _Terry_ … I didn’t – I _don’t_ want to be just a straight guy who’ll marry a lady and have kids, anymore. I don’t want a _replacement_ whose faces I can just _swap_. I want …”

Starsky looks at him again, and another wall of Hutch’s ice fortress crumbles beneath the warmth of Starsky’s gaze, melting into a river.

“I want the irreplaceable. And I could never replace _you_ , Blondie. Nobody could ever replace you. Nobody.”

_Oh, Starsky, my best friend I’ve got in the whole world. My best friend, my lover. My everything._

“Just figures I’d only realize that when it’s _too late_ , huh?” Starsky tugs the blanket closer around his torso, round-shouldered, staring at the floor with dejected eyes. “My head was all _messed_ up for months after I went back to active duty. I kept telling myself that I’d already _ruined_ the one chance I had with you, that night. I kept telling myself you didn’t love me that way, not anymore, and my _head_ got it …“ Starsky taps his left temple several times with one bandaged forefinger. “But, my heart … my heart just wouldn’t accept it, and I was so mad at myself, mad at _everything_ for fucking it all up, for _lying_ to your face just like _Blaine_ did to _everyone_ in his life. I kept telling myself I wasn’t like him, I’m _not_ like him, too … and I not only ended up becoming _exactly_ like him, I ended up hurting the person I care for most in the world: You.“

The lump in Hutch’s throat returns with a vengeance at Starsky averting his face even more, obscuring it – and its harsh flaunt of emotion – in the shadows.

“I deserve to lose you after that. When ya told me about Stacey, I thought it was my punishment for lying, to you, to myself. To everybody. And I accepted it.” Starsky’s voice is a rasping murmur now. “I didn’t think anything could hurt more than being shot in the back three times. But when I saw you with her, how _happy_ you were with her … all the alcohol I drank couldn’t numb me, no matter how many times I tried. And when you _called_ , asking me if I was okay … what could I _say_ , ya know? ‘No, Hutch, I’m _not_ okay, I’m sitting here bawling my eyes out and drinking a bottle of whisky and I’m about to sign my _transfer_ papers and not _tell_ you.’ Like I could tell you that when I could hear her in the background, telling ya she’s getting the _bed_ ready.”

Hutch shuts his eyes, swallowing down that obstinate lump that threatens to become a miniscule noise of sorrow. So he was right, Starsky _had_ been drinking that night, and it was no ‘twelve-hour cold’ that caused Starsky to sound so awful.

“Oh, Starsky. Buddy.”

More walls of Hutch’s ice fortress collapse, crashing down one after another, liquefying under a magnificent light – magnificent _heat_ – from a sky no longer gloomy and grey into water, so much _water_. Torrents of it, raging through parched channels in the land that coil to the horizon and beyond, bestowing life where there had once been none –

“Ah, look at me. Here I am fucking it all up again, huh? Talking pointless crap when you’re already in love and you’ve already made your choice.”

“Starsky, I _have_ made my choice, and it’s –“

“No, don’t. Please. I _know_ it’s her, and that’s – that’s a _good_ thing.”

The smile on Starsky’s lips when Starsky gazes at him once again is unanticipated by Hutch. It’s that smile, that smile he’d seen at the dinner with Stacey in The Pits, that same smile he’d seen on his last ride in the Torino with Starsky. It’s an agonizing thing. An inexcusable thing so unworthy of gracing Starsky’s handsome face.

He hopes that this is the very last time he will ever see it upon Starsky’s face.

“She’s what’s _best_ for you, Hutch. She’s everything you _need_. She likes the same things you do, she makes ya smile and _laugh_ , and she – she _gets_ you. She even likes that yucky _vegetarian_ stuff, which is _perfect_ for ya, and she’s a _woman_ , Hutch, someone you can _marry_ , who can give you _kids_ , a _family_. Someone you can live the _American dream_ with, in a house in the suburbs with, I dunno, two kids and a couple a’ _dogs_ or something.” Starsky abruptly loses steams and appears disoriented. “How can I compete with that, huh? How can I _compete_ with that?”

Hutch stares at Starsky, his eyes stark with incredulity. What Starsky just said … it’s precisely what _he_ used to tell himself, what he used to justify shoving his feelings for Starsky into a metal box deep in the recesses of his heart and throwing away the key. Which he never did. Never will.

“Look, you shouldn’t waste more a’ your time here. She must be wondering where you are. I’m okay now.”

Oh Starsky, trying so hard to feign dispassion, to stay imprisoned in his own towering fortress of ice.

“Starsky,” Hutch says, torn between weeping and seizing Starsky by the upper arms into his embrace, craving to perhaps do both. “Do you actually _know_ what happened to you?”

Starsky blinks owlishly, then mumbles, “I remember the ride from the city to the mountains. We were supposed to meet a contact there. That’s what D’Amato said.”

“You don’t remember anything else?”

“Not really. It’s a blank.” Starsky glances away yet again, then says so mellifluously, “I thought I was _dreaming_ when I saw your face. I thought I was dreaming when I felt you nearby, when you held me. With my head hurting like it is, part a’ me is still thinking that I _am_ , but I don’t care. You _are_ here. I’m _not_ dreaming this time.”

“No, babe. You’re not dreaming,” Hutch says, his heart overflowing, flooding with the purest, azure water in the universe. “And yeah, I _am_ in love.”

He doesn’t realize the unintentionally cruel twist of the knife in Starsky that his words produces until he sees the fleeting crumpling of Starsky’s features, so fleeting that Hutch almost fails to spot it. He sits up, his eyes stinging.

“Starsky, I _am_ in love. _With you_.”

And as his earnest declaration sinks in, no longer are the lands of his mind unfruitful and snow-veiled, no longer it is cold and despairing for the seeds that were sowed long, long ago are sprouting, exploding forth from the prisons of their husks, fed by the life-giving water that had once been _his_ prison. Millions of new blades of grass shoot up from the soil, arising into an endless field of green as Starsky lifts his head and stares at him, wide-eyed, disbelieving … and hopeful. Oh, so _hopeful_.

“What, did you think I could just – just _turn off_ my _love_ for you? Just _switch it off_ like a – like a _light bulb?_ ” Hutch asks, his eyes stinging more than ever. “That night, I told you being just _friends_ was enough for me because I thought that was what _you_ wanted. Just because I _said_ it didn’t mean I stopped being in love with you. And you … you weren’t the only one who was worried sick about losing someone too. All I could think about was not losing _you_ , too.”

Starsky’s left hand is moving across the bed towards him, one hesitant inch at a time.

“Then, you …”

“Yeah, Starsk. I couldn’t move on from you either. I never did. I slept with as many women as I could too, and like you, I did love some of them. But they were … in the end, they were just like … _shooting stars_. Flying into my life and then flying out of it as fast as they came. And then there’s _you_. The _sun_. Who stayed with me for all these years, through my worst and my best, even when you weren’t physically near.”

“Hutch …”

Starsky’s eyes glisten in the illumination of the bedside lamp.

“Before you ask,” Hutch says, showing a small smile that he trusts isn’t quavering, “Stacey and I broke up yesterday.” He rubs at his forehead with the fingers of his right hand. “No … the more truthful answer is, we broke up a _long_ time ago. We were broken from the beginning. We were loving what we hoped for from each other, not who we really were. She was right, she … never had a chance. Not when there has never been any room within me for anyone else. Anyone except _you_.”

Hutch has to blink hard to be able to see Starsky clearly again and swallow to carry on speaking. Starsky has moved ever nearer, their hands so close to brushing on the bed.

“So what are you _doing_ all the way there, huh? It’s cold tonight, and I _swear_ I had this amazing, _gorgeous_ man in my arms just now and –“

And this time, _oh_ , this time, there are no more avoided gazes, no more denial, no more wounding lies and Starsky is diving into his arms and Starsky’s lips are upon his and they’re real, _this_ is _real_ , this is _really happening_ –

“Hutch, oh, Hutch, oh god, _Hutch_ –“

And Starsky is kissing him everywhere on his face, his forehead, his eyelids, his flushed cheeks, his nose wrinkled with mirth, his lips smiling with rapture, and Starsky is even kissing his hair, smelling it, telling him how his hair shines like _gold_ –

“Love you, Hutch, love you, love you, _love you_ –“

And then, Starsky is stiffening, arching his back, mouth opening in a mute cry and … _whoa_. Okay, that is _definitely_ dampness Hutch is feeling in the area of their groins.

“Babe, did you just …”

Starsky is lying bonelessly on him now, panting against his neck, burying a reddened face there.

“Oh my god … _oh my god_ , I feel so stupid. I haven’t … haven’t done that since I was _thirteen_.”

Smiling dotingly, Hutch caresses the back of Starsky’s head and kisses Starsky’s forehead. He disregards his own erection still bound in his jeans. He can deal with that later.

“ _Sshh_ , it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not!” Starsky replies with a high-pitched tone, and Hutch refrains from laughing aloud at Starsky’s mortification. “The nurses are gonna know what we did and – and …” Hutch gasps when Starsky’s hand molds itself around his cock, giving it a squeeze. ‘You’re hard too. You haven’t come yet, Hutch.”

“Starsky, don’t, you’re still recovering from a _concussion_ and _frostbite_ to your hands and feet –“

“Hutch. I’ve been waiting for _five years_ to get my mouth around your big monster of a cock again. _Don’t_ deny me this.”

“ _Starsk_ , oh fuck –“

His traitorous hands aid Starsky in undoing his belt and jeans’ zip, in wrenching down his underwear. Oh fuck, his cock is so damn hard that its pointing up towards his flat belly and Starsky is staring at it and licking his lips as if his cock’s the greatest feast in mankind’s history and _oh fuck_ , Starsky’s bending down, closing his mouth around the head of his erection and suddenly, he’s back in time, five years ago. He’s in the living room of his Venice Beach canal cottage, on the couch with Starsky, watching some late night movie he doesn’t remember at all. He’s on the couch, and Starsky’s left hand is on his thigh and then Starsky’s kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with all the love in creation, sealing their fate for eternity with a smile, a sentence and a question.

_I’ve been waiting for over a year to be here with you, Blondie. Do ya want this too, like I do?_

“Yes … _yes_ … _YES!_ ”

A billion sunflowers bud and bloom across Hutch’s now bountiful cerebral lands, in prodigious waves that steal his breath away and shatter him into countless specks of light in the brilliant blue sky above. He hovers, soars on the gale, and gazes in awe at the verdure below that unfolds as far as his eyes can see. He is warm. He is free.

He lives, once more.

“I love you, Starsky. _Love you_.”

Starsky reacts with coughing. Lots of coughing. Through his dissipating miasma of bliss, Hutch tucks himself back into his jeans, then pushes himself off the pillows against the headboard and draws a still coughing Starsky into his arms. He is aghast that he had become so immersed in his own pleasure that he’d choked Starsky.

“Don’t you _dare_ say you’re sorry,” Starsky growls after regaining his breath, just as Hutch is about to talk. “I _loved_ it. Loved feeling you come so hard ‘cause of _me_.”

“And you’ll be the _only_ one who’ll make me come, from now on.”

“I like the sound of that,” Starsky murmurs as they lie back down, chest to back, on the bed.

“Me too,” Hutch says, pulling the blankets up and over their bodies, up to Starsky’s chin.

“Hutch, what happened to me on the mountain?”

“I’ll tell you what I know in the morning, okay? Sleep now. A nurse is probably going to wake you up in a few hours.”

“Gimme another kiss?”

Hutch obeys, pressing his lips to Starsky’s, tasting himself there.

“I love you, Blondie,” Starsky whispers, and together, they fall into a soporific slumber in which Hutch dreams of bathing in cool, winding rivers and wandering through boundless fields of variegated flowers while the sun smiles down upon on him.

 

& & & & & &

 

There is such inexplicable serenity for Hutch in the simple tying of Starsky’s shoelaces.

“Ya don’t have to do that, Blintz.”

He doesn’t reply Starsky’s fond comment and knots the white laces of the left dark brown sneaker into a ribbon, smiling softly. He misses Starsky’s old, blue Adidas shoes. They really suited Starsky’s regular ensembles, those skin-tight jeans and colorful shirts and leather jackets. Really brought out the tan of Starsky’s skin, the opulent brunet of Starsky’s hair.

“There. All done.”

“Dummy. I can tie my own shoes, ya know.”

“Is that why you’re just sitting there on the bed watching me do it?”

Hutch chuckles when Starsky’s bandaged hands playfully tousle his hair, and he smiles up at Starsky who’s garbed in that black turtleneck and jeans again, at Starsky’s likewise jovial smile, at the twinkling of Starsky’s crinkled eyes. There are still dark circles of exhaustion around those big, blue eyes. Unlike his slumber, Starsky’s had not turned out to be as revitalizing as his for long. There had been nightmares, bad ones that’d awoken Starsky into mumbling fits of terror out of which Hutch would coax him with gentle words and hugs.

Starsky is starting to remember.

“Are you boys ready?”

A nurse in her late fifties is standing at the open door of the room, grasping the handles of a wheelchair in front of her. She has a motherly smile on her face. She’d been observing Hutch patiently tying Starsky’s shoelaces, and it is her smile that reminds him his love for Starsky that he has always willingly demonstrated in public – now even more so, boldly – is something exceptional. Incomparable. Priceless.

Hutch smiles at her, stands up and says, “We are, now.”

As she maneuvers the wheelchair to the bed, she says to them, “Luckily you won’t be needing your coats today. It’s quite warm and sunny.”

Hutch blinks and glances at her. Coats … oh yeah, their winter coats. He and Callahan had discarded theirs a short while after arriving at the hospital. The waiting area had been hot as hell and jam-packed with people, and he’d left his coat with Callahan to accompany Starsky in the ER. He doesn’t recall Callahan bringing them along into Starsky’s hospital room, and this nurse doesn’t have them with her. As for Starsky’s coat –

“Your coats were taken by a police officer last night,” she adds. “He said the BCPD’s forensics team wanted them.”

“Ah, okay.” Hutch glances down at Starsky, and asks, “Do you feel cold, buddy? Maybe we can ask for a  –“

“Nah. I’m good,” Starsky says quietly. “I just wanna go home.”

The side of Starsky’s left foot is touching the back of his right shin. Rubbing it.

“Okay,” Hutch replies with a smile. “Let’s go home.”

Hutch’s jubilation of being with Starsky again abates just a bit as Starsky gets off the bed and totters to the wheelchair. Starsky’s hands and feet will be aching for a few days, the doctor had said, then have a dull throbbing that can last for weeks, even months. The stitched wound on Starsky’s head will have to be cleaned and bandaged anew daily, and if infection should set in, Starsky has to return to the hospital right away.

He’d had a close look at the wound earlier this morning as a nurse, a different one, had redressed it and then handed him the necessary medication for safekeeping on Starsky’s behalf. He’d swallowed visibly at the tidy crisscrossing of over a dozen stitches across Starsky’s scalp. There’ll be a scar, no doubt, but should Starsky grow out his hair again, the profuse curls ought to hide it. The wound had been deep. Just an inch, _one more inch_ , and Starsky would be in the morgue instead, shrouded in white with a bullet in his head, and _he_ … he’d probably be on the slab next to Starsky. Maybe a gunshot to his head too. Or the good old slashing of wrists/forearms. Either way, together with his partner, even in death –

“Hey.” Starsky, sitting in the wheelchair now, is gazing up at him and gripping his right hand. “I’m here, Hutch.”

Starsky’s hand is so warm, even bandaged as it is. So alive. So fitting in his, as if they’ve been created just for each other. Perhaps they really are.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, and he holds Starsky’s hand against his belly, placing his left hand over it as well and smiling at Starsky giving his fingers a squeeze.

At Starsky’s behest, the nurse lets Hutch push the wheelchair. While they head for the elevator, the nurse describes each and every measure of caring for Starsky’s frostbitten limbs and head injury, and Hutch nods and listens dutifully. He’s been down this lane many times, figuratively and literally, trading places with Starsky every so often to be the one being wheeled out of the hospital. But this time, Starsky isn’t just his partner, just his best friend. Starsky’s also his _lover_. His _other half_.

His other half that a world not so cruel after all has returned to him, to make him whole once more.

“Is anyone going to pick you up?” the nurse asks as the elevator doors open at the ground floor.

Hutch and Starsky glance into each other’s eyes, Hutch dipping his head and Starsky tilting his head back.

“Ya got my car?” Starsky asks.

Hutch shakes his head.

“It’s still at the Crystal Lake Recreation Center. We got here by helicopter. Do you remember that?”

Starsky blinks up at him, then says, “I think so. You were there with me. You were talking to me. And holding my hand.”

“Yeah,” Hutch says, his soft smile back. “Do you remember what happened to you, now?”

Hutch’s smile softens even more when Starsky looks away but reaches over one shoulder to touch his left hand grasping one of the handles of the wheelchair.

“It’s coming back to me in pieces, but … I’m remembering a lot more.”

Hutch entwines his fingers with Starsky’s.

_I’m here too, buddy. I’m not going anywhere without you._

“If you’d like to call someone to pick you up, you can do that at Reception,” the nurse says. She’s already stepped out of the elevator, and is waiting for them to do the same.

“That’d be great, thank you,” Hutch replies.

At the stately, curved cherry wood reception desk, Hutch is handed a white phone by one of the two receptionists there, a blonde woman with wavy hair down to the middle of her back who smiles broadly at him. He smiles politely in response and says an equally polite thank you, and isn’t all that surprised to see her smile wane.

_Sorry, random pretty woman, but this man’s spoken for and he’s damn happy about it._

Starsky’s hand is on his lower back as he leans his forearms on the glass top of the reception desk and dials the number of Dobey’s office. Oh boy, he’d forgotten to contact Dobey last night about Starsky waking up and about Starsky being discharged this morning so Dobey’s probably _not_ going to appreciate being called just to become their _chauffeur_.

“Who ya calling, Hutch?”

“Dobey,” he says, hearing the monotone beeping of his call waiting to be connected go on and on. “I don’t think he’s in.”

He puts down the receiver after another five seconds of beeping. Okay, Dobey’s out, so a chew out’s been dodged too. (For now.) Callahan _was_ his next option, but he’s already put the younger detective through enough crap in the past twenty-four hours and it _is_ the first day of their Dobey-ordered vacation. So that leaves …

“Huggy,” he mumbles to himself.

“Ya calling Huggy?”

“Yeah.” Hutch looks at the oval-shaped clock hanging on the wall behind the reception desk and sees that it’s forty minutes past nine. “It’s a little _early_ for him –“

His reply is cut off by Starsky abruptly grabbing his upper arm. Hard enough that it almost hurts.

“Let’s just get a _cab_ , okay? _Please_ , Hutch?”

Wow, Starsky’s puppy dog eyes are on at full power, large and outwardly innocuous … and at utter odds with the anxiety endowing the intensity to Starsky’s clutch of his arm. _What_ the … Starsky’s _frightened_ of Huggy? What’s there about _Huggy_ to be frightened of –

And then, the startling image of a drunk Starsky at The Pits splashes itself on Hutch’s mind. A drunk, _violent_ Starsky launching himself across the bar to get at a bottle of whisky in Huggy’s hands, hollering at Huggy to _give_ him the fucking whisky _or else_. A drunk, violent Starsky so entangled in self-hatred and misery that nothing mattered anymore except the numbing of his heart that simply wouldn’t stop loving Hutch.

No, it’s not fear Starsky’s feeling in regards to Huggy.

Hutch strokes the left side of Starsky’s head, sliding his fingers through Starsky’s cropped hair.

_Ah, Starsk. Sooner or later you’ll HAVE to meet and talk with Huggy, and something tells me he won’t react like you’re afraid he will._

But what Hutch says is, “Okay. Okay, we’ll get a cab,” and Starsky releases his arm and smiles at him. Starsky’s relief is so evident that Hutch feels it like a condensed fog around both of them. When he turns back to the reception desk and picks up the receiver a second time, Starsky’s hand is on his lower back again, just touching him, maintaining a physical bond between them. It soothes him as much as it seems to soothe Starsky.

His call to Manny at Metro Cab is quick though friendly. Manny obviously remembers him and Starsky, for the cab already on its way to the hospital is on Manny’s dime: “You think I’m gonna _charge_ the two _stupendous_ poh-leece men who _saved_ my company and my homies from a _killer?_ Pssh! Forget it, dude. Oh, send my kudos to that _cool cat_ , Huggy, will ya?”

As the nurse had informed them, the weather is indeed sunny and balmy. Wheeling Starsky through the main entrance doors, Hutch smiles at Starsky turning his face up towards the halcyon heavens and basking in the sunshine with those blue eyes shut. Starsky looks like a boy with not a worry in the world.

“The warmth feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmurs, gazing down at his lover’s tranquil expression.

This winter morning, Starsky’s eyes are as blue as the sky above.

“Yeah, it does,” Starsky murmurs back, gazing tenderly into his eyes, and Hutch knows that Starsky isn’t just talking about the sunshine.

Hutch bows his head more to whisper, “I want to kiss you so bad.”

“Even with my _morning breath?_ ”

Hutch grins and says, “Even with.”

“Aw, man, it’s _gotta_ be love,” Starsky says, also grinning, and with the nurse still nearby, Hutch risks only hugging Starsky around the shoulders and resting his cheek against the crown of Starsky’s head. Starsky seems to not care that other people may be watching them, and angles his head to one side so that their cheeks are pressed together. Starsky’s hands are clasping his forearms.

“Missed you,” Starsky whispers, and although Starsky had already said that to him last night, a lump still develops in his throat.

Said in the light of day, in the morning after, the words are doubly elating.

“Missed you too. Missed _us_. You have no idea how much.”

“Oh, I think I do.”

They smile at each other again, the arch of Starsky’s lips more mischievous but no less adoring.

After spotting a vacant bench near the main entrance/exit of the hospital, Hutch helps Starsky off the wheelchair to his feet and they thank the nurse and then amble to the bench. They sit on the center of the bench,  Hutch’s arm around Starsky’s shoulders, their heads touching. Starsky’s shoulders feel bony. Starsky must have lost even more weight since Hutch ran into him at the Metro. It isn’t right that Starsky’s undernourished like this. He’s going to have to fatten Starsky up with all of Starsky’s favorite carb-rich, oily foods, like those _gargantuan_ beef burritos Starsky drools over from that Mexican café on North Evergreen Avenue or those _massive_ pizzas from that pizzeria on North Larchmont Boulevard, and fuck it if anyone’s going to tell them Starsky shouldn’t eat such food these days.

Life’s too damn short.

And what’s the point of living if you can’t _enjoy_ it?

“Hutch, let’s go to _your_ apartment, okay?”

Seated as they are, Starsky can’t see his puzzled frown.

“But you need a change of clothes. I don’t think I have any of your winter clothes at my place. And I’m sure you’d like a shave and a shower, and rest.”

He’d like a shave, shower and a change of clothes too, actually, but all that can wait until Starsky’s been taken care of first. They’ve already had breakfast courtesy of the hospital.

“Ya got heating, don’tcha?” Starsky murmurs. “I can clean myself up at your place. And you got a nice, big _bed_.”

Something in the left side of Hutch’s chest skips a beat upon hearing the last remark. Without looking at Starsky’s face, he knows Starsky is smiling, and he smiles too, his toes curling in his boots. Starsky’s lips had felt so _good_ around his cock last night, Starsky’s mouth so hot and welcoming and Starsky had _swallowed_ it all, every globule of his come as if it was the elixir of immortality. Just like that night. That auspicious night when they first made love and changed everything between them, changed _them_.

Oh yeah, If making love’s what Starsky wants,  he’ll love every inch and curvature of Starsky, alright. Love every part of the exquisite man, from head to toe and back, until dawn revisits the horizon tomorrow, until Starsky can’t take it anymore and _he_ can’t take it anymore and they have to take a breather. And then do it all over again.

But, first things first …

“Your place is closer though. We might as well stop there first. Okay?”

Starsky sighs, then mutters, “Fine.”

Hutch’s frown returns, one of concern. Huh, maybe he’s reading too much into the reply but his intuition is screaming that there’s more to Starsky wanting to go to his place than meets the eye here. Starsky had also pleaded to go to his apartment rather than his own after the last hospitalization, after the shooting in the Metro car park. Starsky had, however, not objected or been displeased about Hutch dropping by his apartment to pick up extra clothes and other essential items. What’s up with Starsky’s surliness about it this time?

Hutch’s eyes narrow as they stare ahead about a dozen feet at the two-lane road running parallel with the bench and the hospital’s main entrance.

Is there something at Starsky’s apartment that Starsky doesn’t want him to see?

“Starsk.” He rubs the rounded edge of Starsky’s right shoulder, the one farther from him, with his right thumb. “There’s a lot we have to talk about.”

“I know,” Starsky murmurs readily. “But we got time. Right?”

“Yeah,” Hutch says, smiling softly once again. “We got time.”

For the next four minutes, they sit as they are, Starsky’s face turned more towards his, Starsky slumped against his torso. Occasionally he will see, at the periphery of his vision, people walking in or out of the hospital’s main entrance. Two cars drive past the bench and temporarily stop at the main entrance, the first one a two-door, yellow Dodge Aspen and the second one, appearing two minutes later, a green Ford Pinto. A short-haired brunette with a toddler gets into the Aspen. Two guys get out of the Pinto, one of them suffering from what sounds like a severe, hacking cough. None of these people glance at him and Starsky.

At the fifth minute mark, his eyelids begin to droop. Just as his eyes are about to close, the strident honk of a car horn joggles him and his eyes open wide to see … no way, it _can’t_ be –

“Hutch! Starsky!”

There’s the Torino right there in front of them in its candy apple red-and-white splendor, and there’s Callahan, leaping out of the idle car and hastening towards them with a big smile. Callahan must have gone home at some point after going to the Metro with Dobey because he’s now clean-shaven and in one of his classic suits, the plaid two-piece with a dark orange tie, and those leather, wing tip shoes.

“Looks like I got here just in time, huh?”

Starsky is sitting up, inhaling deeply as if he’d been napping and is still half-asleep. Hutch stands up first, and slides his hand along the back of Starsky’s neck to Starsky’s left shoulder, leaving it there as Callahan pats him on the upper back and aims that big smile at Starsky.

“Good to see ya up and about, Starsky. How ya feeling?”

Starsky is now standing too, but Starsky isn’t saying anything. He’s gaping at something on Callahan’s forehead. When Hutch takes a good look at it, he also gapes, his mouth an ‘o’ shape.

“Joey … what _happened_ to you?” Hutch asks, staring at the blue-black contusion in the middle of Callahan’s high forehead.

“Oh, this?” Callahan says, smiling even wider and gingerly touching the shiner. “Bashed in a certain asshole’s _face_ with it, that’s what.”

Hutch’s lower jaw sags more even as he grins.

“Joey, you _didn’t_.”

“Hey, wasn’t my fault! _Honest!_ ” Callahan says, pointing at himself with both thumbs. “He had Minnie _hostage_ and he walked right into me and _totally_ deserved it –“

“ _Hostage?!_ ” Starsky and Hutch exclaim simultaneously.

“Yeah, when Dobey and I got back to the Metro and he was parking the car in the parking lot, D’Amato came outta the building with Minnie and he had a _gun_ to her head and –“

Another strident honk of a car horn pierces the air. It’s emitting from a beige Buick Regal that has parked behind the Torino, and its driver’s window is rolled down. A bald, brawny man in a suit and tie is waving at them. Hutch doesn’t recognize the man, and glances at Starsky with mild astonishment when Starsky smiles sideways at the guy.

“Hey, Starsky! Callahan told me what happened to you. You really _do_ attract all kinds of crazy danger shit, don’t you?!”

Starsky laughs. Before he can reply, the man shouts at Callahan, “ _C’mon!_ We gotta hurry, or we’ll miss the flight!”

“Flight?” Hutch asks.

Callahan places one hand on his shoulder and the other on Starsky’s, and says to them, “Yeah, I’m flying to San Francisco with Nelson and several other guys from Organized Crime. I can’t talk about it for now but I will as soon as I’m cleared to do so.”

Hutch goes back to gaping at the younger detective, bemused by the influx of vague information. San Francisco? _Organized Crime?_ What’s Callahan doing with cops from _that_ department?

Yet another strident honk, a longer, impatient one.

“ _Okay_ , Nelson!” Callahan bellows. Then he says to them in a rush, “I’m sorry, I gotta go, I’ll talk to you guys as soon as I get back, okay?” He gestures at the Torino as he strides briskly back to the Buick Regal where Nelson is drumming his fingers on the driver’s door frame. “Don’t worry, I’ve cleaned it and I filled the gas tank before coming here and, _oh!_ Starsky! I got your _toque_ back from Imogen and it’s in the glove compartment and if you guys wanna know what happened to D’Amato and Minnie, talk to Dobey! I’ll call you when I get back, Hutch! Take care, Starsky!”

They watch Callahan clamber into the car and shut the passenger door, waving back when Callahan waves at them. As the car revs past the parked Torino, a grinning Nelson shouts, “Good to see ya again, Starsky! And hey, Hutchinson! We owe ya one for Gunther! How about transferring to OC too?”

“Not a chance, Nelson!” Starsky shouts back affably. “He’s sticking with _me!_ ”

Nelson’s gravelly laugh soon fades to silence as the Buick Regal turns onto the main road and disappears from sight. Bowled over as he is, Hutch says nothing, gawking at the Torino with its half-open driver’s door. D’Amato took Minnie _hostage_ last night? And then Callahan _head-butted_ D’Amato in the middle of the hostage situation? And now Callahan’s hanging out with Organized Crime cops and flying to San Francisco on a _job_ with them?

Guess he and Starsky weren’t the only ones who had an exciting night!

“Hey, Hutch, is that the cab ya called for?”

Sure enough, a bright yellow cab has parked behind the Torino, with ‘Metro Cab’ printed in large, blocky letters on its doors.

“Yeah. Wait here,” he replies, patting Starsky once on the upper back. After walking to the cab and apologizing to its driver for the inadvertent inconvenience, he walks back to Starsky and wraps his arm around Starsky’s shoulders.

“You know that guy who was driving the Buick?” Hutch asks while they stroll to the Torino.

“Nelson? Yeah, Ryan Nelson. He’s a senior detective in the Organized Crime unit. Worked with him for my first Narco case.”

“Ah.”

“Who’s Imogen?”

“Forest Ranger Imogen Greene. She was our guide up Mount Islip. If it hadn’t been for her and her dog, I – I don’t know if we’d have _found_ you.”

The leather of the steering wheel is smooth under Hutch’s hands. Pristine, without a single blotch of D’Amato’s blood anywhere. The gas tank’s almost full, and yeah, there’s Starsky’s toque in the glove compartment and it still fits Starsky’s head just right.

“You’d have found a way, Hutch. I know ya would.”

Starsky is smiling at him, tugging the hem of the toque over the bandage covering that near-fatal head injury, and oh, that lump in his throat is back again, at the absolute trust in Starsky’s voice. The absolute _faith_ Starsky has in him. What did he ever do to earn something so treasurable from Starsky?

He wants to know what it is he did, so he can do it again and always be worthy of that faith.

Starsky’s smile softens when he strokes Starsky’s bristly cheek with the back of his fingers. Five years ago, even during that one month they were lovers, touching Starsky like this in public would have been unthinkable. Starsky would have been the first to oppose it, glare at him or snarl at him to back off, not lean into the caress and gaze at him with all that _love_ in those mesmerizing eyes.

_Love you too, big guy._

As the Torino glides past the hospital’s main entrance, Starsky says, “We gotta call Minnie. She’s gotta be alright since Joey’s going off to San Francisco and didn’t say anything about her being hurt, but still …”

Hutch glances at Starsky, smiles and says, “We’ll call her later, okay?”

“Okay.” Then, about ten seconds later, Starsky asks, “Hey, didn’t you say the Torino was still at the Recreation Center?”

Hutch waits till he’s maneuvered the car onto the main road and joined traffic before saying, “Yeah. Joey must have gone back early this morning to pick it up and drive it back.”

 _Very_ early, now that he considers it, since it takes over an hour to go there by car and another hour back to the city, and who knows what other quandary apart from the hostage situation Callahan had been embroiled in before that.

“That guy’s an angel,” Starsky says, echoing Hutch’s thoughts about the young New Yorker.

Hutch spends a couple of hushed minutes prudently selecting his next words, then says, “You know, I’m glad I had Joey as a partner.”

He senses Starsky’s stare on the right side of his face. Waits for the significance of one particular word to be absorbed by Starsky’s mind.

“Had?” Starsky murmurs.

_Attaboy!_

“Yeah.”

Starsky seems astounded and spends a couple of hushed minutes himself generating a reply.

“But … you’re still partners with Joey. Aren’t ya?”

So much hope clinging onto the last two words. Hope that he’s wrong.

Hutch grasps Starsky’s left hand with his right, interlacing their fingers, and says, “Last night, while you were still asleep, Joey said something to me that made it pretty clear he knew his partnership with me was coming to an end. And what Nelson said earlier, joking about me transferring to Organized Crime _too_ …”

“Oh. So … you’ll need a new partner. To replace him.”

“No.”

Again, Starsky stares at his face, but he continues to gaze out the windshield as he drives.

“I need my _true_ partner. My irreplaceable partner, to whom everyone else pales in comparison. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is, would you?”

And without looking at Starsky, he knows that Starsky is grinning that satisfied, puckish grin.

“Yeah … I do. He’ll, uh, be submitting transfer papers in triplicate to get his ass back into Homicide faster than the speed a’ _light_.”

“That’s what I thought,” Hutch says, deadpan. Then, the instant they glance at each other, they break into robust chuckles, tightening their hold on each other’s hands, laughing for the sake of expressing their elation. Hutch feels like a little boy once more, like that little boy who once lived on a magical horse farm with his mommy and daddy and knew nothing of death or evil. That little boy who had no sliver of ice in his heart. Who had a place where he was safe and loved, a place he called _home_.

Home, where the heart is.

Home, where Starsky is.

Lounging on the passenger seat, Starsky gazes affectionately at his profile for a long time, still holding his hand. The staring doesn’t bother him at all. He’d often caught Starsky doing just that throughout their years of knowing each other, at all sorts of occasions and locations. Hell, it hadn’t bothered him on the day they _met_ , and why would it?

He’d stared at Starsky just as much. Stared and lusted after a _man_ just _minutes_ after laying eyes on the guy for the first time in his life. Stared and lusted and _fell in love_ , as if a spell had been cast upon him by that humongous smile and those sincere eyes. As if Starsky had been an angel fallen from above, just for him.

No, wait, not fallen.

 _Sent_.

“I like the new look,” Starsky murmurs huskily, and when Hutch glances at him, at the halo of sunshine gilding that toque-covered head and delineating the lines and arcs of that long, smooth neck and those broad shoulders, Hutch has to remind himself to breathe.

Truly, an angel sent from above. Just for him, and him alone.

“You do, huh?” Hutch replies, delighted.

“Yeah.” Starsky pauses. Then, deadpan, he says, “The moldy caterpillar finally got its wings and flew away. How’s that _not_ an improvement?”

As soon as he shoots a mock glower at Starsky, Starsky’s lips twitch and tremble with mirth. It’s such a contagious sight that his own lips twitch too. He lets out an exaggerated sigh and mutters, “Yeah, _okay_ , the mustache _wasn’t_ my best decision for my fa– … Starsky, what are you doing?”

Starsky has opened the glove compartment again and is delving both hands into it, searching hastily for something.

“A tape recorder. I gotta record your _confession_ so if ya ever _think_ about growing the caterpillar on your lip again, I’ll – _ouch!_ “

“That was just a pinch on your belly, you big baby.”

Hutch is smiling so hard that his cheeks are aching.

“Hey! I just got outta the hospital!” Starsky retorts, pouting and rubbing at the offended area, blue eyes twinkling. “That any way to treat a _convalescent?!_ ”

“Maybe I should have gone _lower_ , hm?” Hutch murmurs, lowering his voice, permeating it with desire now liberated, and he beams even more at the blush enflaming Starsky’s face from forehead to chin. Starsky, who’d given him an earth-shattering blowjob in a hospital room mere hours ago! Ah, what an intriguing dichotomy his partner is.

“Yeah, well, that part a’ me prefers a lot less _pinching_ , thank you very much.”

“I know. It prefers long, strong sucks. And tongue. Lots of tongue, especially around the head and on the _slit_.”

Hutch doesn’t look at Starsky for a whole minute. He trains his gaze on the road ahead, his fingers clenched around the steering wheel, his face searing. Damn, his cock’s already straining against his jeans, and there’s no way in _hell_ he’s going to unzip and take himself out on a _public highway_. While _driving_.

“What’re ya trying to do, Blondie … gimme a _heart attack?_ ”

Starsky’s voice has become even huskier, as if Starsky is out of breath, as if Starsky’s already on the _verge_. Hutch risks a glance, and almost comes simply from seeing Starsky’s head angled back, those large blue eyes squeezed shut and the Adam’s apple in Starsky’s throat bobbing as Starsky swallows hard. He makes an even riskier glance downwards. Oh damn, Starsky’s as hard as he is and straining just as much in those snug jeans. Damn, damn, _damn_ , why hasn’t someone invented Star Trek-like teleportation already? If someone did, they’d be in a bedroom right now and he’d be yanking off Starsky’s jeans and hurling Starsky onto the bed and –

“You got lousy timing,” Starsky adds, looking at him and smiling at him now. He smiles too, keeping his hands on the steering wheel.

“Except when it really counts, right?” he replies, and they chortle, Starsky’s laugh wonderfully wicked and loving at the same time.

Hutch risks yet another glance. Starsky has placed his bandaged hands on his belly, just above the belt. Starsky’s fingers are curled, like he’s battling the urge to let his hands travel lower down and do very, _very_ indecent things to a certain portion of his anatomy. Starsky’s face is flushed and Starsky’s lips are parted and oh _man_ , if Starsky keeps looking at him like _that_ , he’s going to end up with a _sticky_ situation in a matter of seconds.

He squints ahead at the road, breathes in consciously, then says with what he hopes is a casual tone, “I like your short hair too.”

“Yeah?”

So much pleasure in that uttered word, so much that Hutch’s treacherous mouth murmurs hoarsely, “Brings back memories.”

For what seems an eon, neither man speak or gaze at each other. Hutch’s hands are now gripping the steering wheel so tautly that they’re aching. Aching nearly as much as his erection that won’t go down, not with the _delicious_ human being sitting next to him.

“I … I didn’t think about it until it was too late.” Starsky’s voice is still husky. Thrumming with an energy that shoots straight to Hutch’s groin. “Just really felt like I had to change my _look_ , ya know? Walked into the first barbershop I could find and got it all snipped off, and when I went home and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror …”

Starsky’s breaths have quickened.

Starsky’s thinking the same thing he is, too.

“Have you changed your bathroom mirror?”

In spite of the usual din of traffic and the droning of the Torino’s engine, Hutch hears the hitching of Starsky’s breath.

“Ah, still the wide, rectangular one then. Good. I like a really big mirror in the bathroom. You can see almost _everything_ when you’re bending over the sink … but then _you’d_ know that. Wouldn’t you, angel?”

Jesus, he ought to be receiving an Academy Award for his fantastic portrayal of equable composure and his unwavering tone.

“You bastard,” Starsky whispers, and the two tremoring words are Hutch’s undoing, sending his mind spiraling back five years ago to his Venice Beach canal cottage where he and Starsky were retiring for the night and Starsky was unbuttoning a periwinkle blue shirt and stripping it off while staring into his eyes in the mirror of his bathroom. That mirror had spanned one wall from ceiling to sink and was recessed between two side cabinets, its reflective surface untouched aside from two light fittings on its upper corners. The warm glow from the lights cast a sheen of bronze across the expanse of Starsky’s bared chest, highlighting its dark, soft curls, softening the masculine features of Starsky’s face.

_Fuck me here, Hutch._

The shirt had fluttered to the floor from Starsky’s hand, followed by faded blue jeans that Starsky had to peel off like a second skin.

_Wanna see your face as you take me from behind._

Tonight, Starsky was wearing red briefs. Waiting for _him_ to peel them off.

He hadn’t said a word as he divested himself of his own clothes, nor when he stepped behind Starsky and enfolded his arms around Starsky’s torso, splaying the fingers of his left hand on a firm, rippled belly as his right hand pulled down the briefs to the thighs then stroked the length of Starsky’s already turgid cock from base to head. Hadn’t said a word at Starsky’s eyes flickering shut, at Starsky’s head falling back onto his shoulder, exposing soft skin for him to kiss and suckle and _mark_. Not a word, even when he arranged Starsky’s hands on the rim of the porcelain sink and made Starsky tiptoe and spread those supple legs and then cry out every time his lubricated fingers slid in and kneaded that special spot.

_Hutch, fuck me now, oh Hutch, please –_

And then Starsky had screamed as he plunged in deep, slapping one hand on the mirror while clinging onto the sink with the other at the ferocity of his thrust, screaming a second time with outright ecstasy as he immediately pistoned in and out of Starsky, his hips slamming hard against Starsky’s buttocks. He held Starsky in place with his right forearm across Starsky’s abdomen, watching in the mirror the flight of expressions paraded by Starsky’s animated face: The slackness of intense pleasure, mouth falling open and eyes closing whenever he shoved in till pubic hair chafed against smooth skin. The grimace of even more intense pleasure, big blue eyes in slits and teeth gritted whenever he withdrew and the ridge of the head of his erection scraped Starsky’s prostate, and the best of all, that ear-to-ear grin reflecting his, widening downwards into a final scream as a stream of come erupted from Starsky’s arching body and anointed the sink.

He’d involuntarily bitten Starsky on the shoulder as he came deep inside, enough to bruise though not break skin but Starsky hadn’t complained a bit about it. Starsky had stared at the mirror, at _him_ with glistening eyes round with reverence, fondling his disheveled wisps of blond hair as he kissed the marred skin and mumbled apologies. They had stood there for ages, regaining their breath, their eyes meeting in the mirror, Hutch reluctant to leave Starsky’s body and Starsky reluctant to release him, and the next day, Starsky had to wear a turtleneck to conceal the bite mark plus numerous hickeys on his neck.

It was a black turtleneck. Just like the one Starsky’s wearing at this very moment.

“Is it the same turtleneck?” Hutch asks, his throat dry, his cock as hard as ever, and Starsky makes a sound akin to a whimper and rolls as much as he can onto his side, facing the passenger door and away from Hutch.

“I can’t even look at you. You’re too damn _beautiful_ for your own good.” A gulp, then Starsky rasps, “And if you touch me, I swear I’m gonna come _so_ hard _everybody_ on this highway’s gonna hear me scream.”

“Stole the words right out of my mouth, babe,” Hutch scarcely manages to say.

Desperate for distraction, he switches on the radio. At first, he hears the melodious hums of an electronic piano, then the beginnings of a gentle pop beat. Just when he relaxes, a woman’s resonant voice starts to sing:

_Do that to me one more time_  
 _Once is never enough with a man like you_  
 _Do that to me one more time_  
 _I can never get enough of a man like you, oh_  
 _Kiss me like you just did_  
 _Oh, baby, do that to me once again_

Hutch bites his lower lip. Oh god, of _all_ the songs that had to play, it has to be one speaking straight from his heart!

_Pass that by me one more time_  
 _Once just isn't enough for my heart to hear_  
 _Whoa, tell it to me one more time_  
 _I can never hear enough while I got ya near, oh_  
 _Say those words again that you just did_  
 _Oh, baby, tell it to me once again_

Now Starsky’s looking at him over a shoulder, also biting a lower lip. He glances at Starsky’s face. Starsky’s expression of chagrin is mirroring his so impeccably that they crack up into gleeful guffaws, dispelling some of the heavy sexual tension for the time being.

“Geez, this is ridiculous. It’s like I’m a horny _teenager_ again,” Starsky says, smiling, sitting with his legs drawn up as much as possible, facing the windshield once more.

_Hiding something there, buddy?_

But Hutch tenderly replies with, “Or maybe … this is what it really feels like to be madly in love with someone who’s madly in love with you too.”

Starsky gazes at his profile for some time before saying just as tenderly, “You turning mushy on me, Blintz?”

“That’s what a blintz is, isn’t it? Golden hard on the outside, gooey soft on the inside.” He sniffs, then says with a small smile, “And as I recall, there’s a certain curly-haired, Jewish guy I know who loves blintzes so much that he’s willing to pack a whole _suitcase_ of his mom’s homemade ones back from New York.”

“Ya got it wrong. I _like_ blintzes … but there’s only one Blintz I _love_.”

Hutch’s smile broadens.

“ _Now_ who’s turning all mushy?”

He snickers cheerfully at Starsky’s lack of an answer as well as Starsky smacking him on the upper arm. Ah, the radio’s playing a more upbeat song now, one he and Starsky are familiar with since they’d heard it earlier this year in February when it debuted:

_This thing called love, I just can't handle it_  
 _This thing called love, I must get round to it_  
 _I ain't ready_  
 _Crazy little thing called love_

And uh oh, Starsky’s singing along with Freddie Mercury now and instinctively moving with the music, and all that erotic wiggling on black leather is _not_ helping Hutch with making his erection go away –

_This thing called love, it cries (like a baby)_  
 _In a cradle all night_  
 _it swings (woo woo), it jives (woo woo)_  
 _It shakes all over like a jelly fish_  
 _I kinda like it_  
 _Crazy little thing called love_

And infectious as Starsky’s spirit is when it comes to song and dance, Hutch joins in with a little amendment to the lyrics that causes Starsky to laugh vivaciously:

_There goes my baby_  
 _He knows how to rock n' roll_  
 _He drives me crazy_  
 _He gives me hot and cold fever_  
 _Then he leaves me in a cool, cool sweat_

“ _Yeah_ , babe, that’s _me!_ ” Starsky exclaims, and grinning, they croon the rest of the song with zest, revisiting one of the their relationship’s oldest traditions of singing together to reaffirm the bond between them. Hutch is glad for the sunshine pouring in through the windows and windshield, for it’s as good an excuse as any for the sudden moisture in his eyes. When was the last time he’d sung gaily like this with his best friend in the whole world? How did he ever live without this happiness in his life every day?

In the aftermath of the song, he smiles at Starsky who has rolled onto his other side to face him. Starsky’s eyes are perceptive, perhaps too much, and Hutch glances back at and through the windshield, blinking a few times. Starsky turns down the volume of the radio, then murmurs after a long while, “Man, when I saw you and your new haircut and clothes for the first time, I thought I was dreaming.”

“So did I.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. When I saw you with your short hair, dressed all in black, walking down the hallway towards the squad room … I thought I was hallucinating.” Without thinking, he says, “Thought you leaving me was just a horrid nightmare and you just came back from the barber to show off your new look.”

The ensuing disconsolate silence does an excellent job of wilting whatever genial feelings and erection he has left.

_Good going with your big mouth, Hutchinson. Good going._

At the next traffic light stop, Hutch turns more bodily towards Starsky, angry at himself upon seeing Starsky staring at the dashboard with downcast eyes. Unpremeditated or not, Starsky hadn’t deserved that. Not after opening himself up so much like he did last night.

“Hey, it _is_ just a nightmare now,” he says gently by way of apology, stretching out his right hand to brush his fingers against Starsky’s. “Just a tiny bad dream that’s over and will _never_ happen again. Right?”

Several seconds pass far too sluggishly for Hutch’s wellbeing before Starsky intertwines their fingers and gives his hand a substantial squeeze.

“Right,” Starsky replies, smiling again, shyly, and in the bravest move in public yet, Hutch elevates Starsky’s hand to his lips and kisses it. Then, without missing a beat, Hutch revs the Torino forward once the traffic light is green, smiling goofily over the pleasant shock on Starsky’s face.

_That’s right, babe, no more hiding. Not for us. Better get used to it!_

“What _were_ you doing there that day?” Hutch asks after a minute. “I mean, outside the Homicide squad room.”

Once again, Starsky’s face reddens. It’s heartwarmingly endearing to Hutch.

“I wanted to see you. I missed you like crazy. I was thinking about you every day. Dreaming about you every night.” Starsky is gazing at the dashboard again. Still holding his hand. “The pain of _not_ seeing you got bigger than the pain of seeing you.”

“Ah, buddy.” He strokes Starsky’s hand with his thumb, careful to not press too vigorously on the healing skin. “It’s a little funny now that I think about it. That even though we were physically apart, somehow … you were always there.”

“Like … you could hear me talking to you in your head?”

Hutch glances sharply at Starsky.

“Yeah. _Yeah_ , that’s right. Did you …”

Starsky’s smile twists into a self-reproachful one.

“Yeah. I could hear your voice in my head all the time. Mostly it was … calling me all kinds of names. Names I deserved.”

“ _No_ , you didn’t.” When Starsky raises his head to look him in the eye, he says adamantly, “That voice may have _sounded_ like me, but it wasn’t me. I was _upset_ , sure I was, but I would never have done that.” When one of Starsky’s eyebrows quirk up, he sighs and mumbles, “Okay, so I _have_ called you a moron or dirtball or dummy once or _twice_ … but it was always with love. You know that.” He swallows once, then says in a subdued voice, “You _know_ that, right?”

“Moron.”

Oh, that sweet, impish smile is back, the one that tells him all is forgiven. That he is loved.

“We really are a pair,” he says, also smiling.

“Yeah. Hearing our voices in each other’s heads! Good thing we already had that _trial run_ in Cabrillo, huh? Might as well book a room for two and get used to being tied up with leather belts!”

“If they include an infinite supply of _lubricant_ …”

He waggles his eyebrows at Starsky.

“ _Hutch!_ ”

He is no match for Starsky’s boyish giggle, and he giggles as well, his heart swelling with gratification. To think that he is here, _really_ here in this time and place with Starsky, despite all the odds that had stacked against them … just how _lucky_ is he?

At another traffic stop, Starsky murmurs, “I was … I was going to tell you that day. About everything.”

Starsky is staring out the windshield, expression bashful.

“Which day’s that?”

“The last day I stayed at your apartment. After I got outta the hospital.” Starsky turns his head to look at his face, but not into his eyes. “I was waiting for you to come outta the shower, and I – I had my eyes closed when you came into the bedroom and walked up to the bed. I felt ya sitting on the bed next to me and … I thought that was my chance.” The self-reproachful smile returns. “But when I touched your face and started to talk … well, it was obvious at the time that ya didn’t want anything to do with me in the romance department.”

A groove of incomprehension forms between Hutch’s brows. Okay, hold up here, he recalls that day reasonably well. They’d gone for burritos for lunch, and it’d been so hot that you could fry eggs on the car hood. Starsky hadn’t eaten much. Drank a lot of water because he was sweating buckets and Hutch was concerned about dehydration. Starsky wanted to take a nap while he showered first, said he was tired. Said that they’d resume their conversation afterwards, their conversation about … Starsky living with him a little longer. Maybe another week. Or two.

Maybe forever … if he hadn’t scarpered off like a lily-livered coward and then pretended that Starsky had never reached out to him. Pretended that it wasn’t Starsky’s rejection he feared, and wound up projecting that very fear on Starsky.

Ah, shit.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” he says glumly. 

“If you’re a fucking idiot, I guess that makes me one too,” Starsky says softly. “You weren’t the only one who played the Great Pretender.”

With the radio turned down as it is, Hutch’s warbling resonates within the interiors of the Torino:

_Oh, yes, I was the Great Pretender_  
 _Pretending I was doing well_  
 _My need was such, I pretend too much_  
 _I was lonely, but no one could tell_  
 _Pretending you were still around_

Hutch had expected Starsky to roll those blue eyes at the corniness of his response, but Starsky is staring at him with the same reverence he’d witnessed in the bathroom of his canal cottage years ago, pearly teeth set in a proud smile.

“Why aren’t you a superstar already, huh?”

Hutch’s heart swells with more gratification.

“My singing’s okay.”

“You should make an album. Maybe ten.”

“How about five?”

“ _Only_ five?” Starsky replies in a high pitch, and Hutch chuckles and says, “Last I checked, I barely have enough material for _two_ albums, much less _ten_.”

“Doesn’t matter, ya got _me_ for inspiration.”

 _Ah_ , there he is, his _modest_ , down-to-earth Starsky.

“Yeah, I do,” he says, his eyes crinkled with jollity and even more love.

They lapse into an easy hush as he guides the Torino through Starsky’s neighborhood. At this time of the morning, the neighborhood is the idyllic portrait of middle-class suburbia with its neat rows of single-family homes and their trimmed, emerald lawns and leafy trees. They encounter no other cars along the way to Starsky’s apartment, and when he parks the Torino in front of it, there is no one else as far as his eyes can see.

Starsky’s lips are already parted and awaiting his as he turns to face Starsky. There’s a hint of mango on Starsky’s lower lip, from the mango pudding they had as part of breakfast at the hospital, and inside Starsky’s mouth, there’s a hint of something uniquely Starsky, something Hutch hadn’t had much opportunity to enjoy as long as he wished last night. The hair on Starsky’s chest and belly is as silky as he remembers, sensual fineness between the fingers of his left hand, a titillating contrast to the coarse stubble on Starsky’s face. The hair on Starsky’s head is denser, curling naturally after he removes the black toque and lets it fall behind Starsky onto the passenger seat.

“ _Mmm_ , Hutch …”

Starsky’s hands cup his face and turns the tables on him as Starsky’s tongue delves into his mouth instead. He accepts it breathlessly, shivering at Starsky’s low moan and at Starsky’s hands roaming down his neck, down his chest, gliding under his jacket and turquoise turtleneck then up his back, drawing him closer.

Starsky, not a good kisser?

How wrong he was!

They eventually and unwillingly separate when a random car passes by, only until there’s an inch of space between the tips of their noses, their chest touching, their arms still around each other. Starsky’s eyes are heavy-lidded. Sultry. Promising many more kisses and caresses. A lifetime of them.

“Why don’tcha just wait here while I go up and get my stuff? Okay?”

Reality sinks back in for Hutch when his fingers graze the bandage on the right side of Starsky’s head.

He kisses Starsky again, and murmurs, “Like hell I’m going to let you walk up those stairs alone. Have you forgotten you had a bad concussion _and_ frostbite?”

Something flashes across Starsky’s face, so speedily that Hutch can’t quite determine what it is. Annoyance? _Apprehension?_

“Fine. Whatever.”

Starsky scrabbles out of the Torino, leaving a flabbergasted Hutch gawping at Starsky who’s readjusting his clothes and storming off towards the staircase leading up to the front door. Whoa, what was _that_ about? Is he _missing_ something here?

“Starsky? Starsky!”

Starsky doesn’t reply or glance back at him. He treads up the stairs two steps at a time, effortlessly catching up with Starsky near the top. On the landing, Starsky bends down and tilts one flower pot next to the front door and picks up a silver key from beneath it. But rather than opening the door, Starsky stares at the key in hand, scowling as if he wants to fling it into the bushes below.

“Here. Let me.”

Starsky doesn’t resist or say anything when he takes the key and unlocks the door. The door opens with a slight creak. So what _is_ it that Starsky doesn’t want him to see here?

The answer assails his nose as a powerful, sickly sweet stench that prompts him to hold his breath and narrow his eyes. It’s a stench he’s had the misfortune of having to inhale whenever he and Starsky had to interrogate any of their alcoholic snitches, a stench he never thought he’d come across in Starsky’s home. It’s worse than a _brewery_.

He saunters in first – though not before grasping Starsky’s limp hand in his – then switches on the main lights.

There are empty beer bottles and cans _everywhere_ in the curtained living room. On the floor, all over the coffee table, around the couch, even on the television. A quarter-full bottle of Jack Daniels lies haphazardly on its side on the edge of the coffee table, uncapped. There are dark stains on one wall, large spatters with rivulets down to the floor where shards of brown and green glass remain. There’s an open pizza box on the floor near the couch and there’s some pizza left in it and it’s been colonized by a zoo of molds and _oh_ boy, he’s just seen a cockroach creep out of the box.

The kitchen is probably a health warzone of its own.

“Would ya believe me if I said I threw a really big party and I hadn’t bothered to clean up yet?” Starsky mutters, head bowed.

In an attempt at levity, Hutch puts on an expression of dismay and says facetiously, “You had a big party and you didn’t invite _me?_ ”

The shame contorting Starsky’s attractive features is so acute that it makes Hutch’s heart throb with sympathy.

“Ah, babe. Come here.”

Starsky sails into his arms without protest, hugging him so tightly that his ribs ache, burrowing his face into his neck. He pets the back of Starsky’s head and sways them to and fro.

“It’s okay … it’s okay.”

Yeah, he can understand why Starsky didn’t want him to be privy to this chaos. It was alarming enough to learn about Starsky binge-drinking hard liquor and getting drunk enough to turn violent towards _Huggy_. To see evidence of it – the physical manifestation of Starsky’s inner turmoil – with his own eyes is really something else. Something he hopes is just another tiny bad dream that’ll never happen again.

“Hey, why don’t you rest on the couch for a bit, hm?” he says into Starsky’s curls, rubbing Starsky’s lower back. “I know you’re tired. You didn’t sleep much last night.”

Starsky nods against his neck.

Reassured by Starsky’s acquiescence, he goes to the couch and tidies it by sweeping some crushed beer cans off the cushions onto the floor. The cushions themselves are unsoiled and plush enough to be comfortable to lie on, at least until he checks out the bedroom.

“You feeling cold? You want a blanket?”

Starsky, sitting on the couch, shakes his head. He looks like a bemused child who’s just realized he’s lost.

“Okay.” Hutch strokes the back of Starsky’s head a second time. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Unlike the living room and kitchen, the bedroom is miraculously unpolluted by any bottles, cans or leftover food. The bed’s been slept in, its sheets and blankets rumpled. After opening the windows to ventilate the room, Hutch replaces the bed sheets with fresh ones from the cupboard, his eyes constantly drawn to the multicolored Falsa blanket that had been underneath a thicker, plain blue blanket. It’s identical to the one he owns, the one Starsky had purchased for him. Did Starsky also sleep with the Falsa blanket on, like he has with his?

The thought of Starsky swaddled in the Falsa blanket from chin to toes, thinking about him too, brings a bittersweet smile to his face.

“Even when we were apart, we were together,” he whispers, touching the Falsa blanket.

He drapes it on top of the folded plain blue blanket, then leaves the bedroom and returns to the living room, pushing away errant bottles and cans with his foot. Starsky hasn’t budged from the couch and is slumped on the cushions, eyes half-shut, respiring slowly. The bandage taped to the side of Starsky’s head seems even more disquieting now, its whiteness so lurid against Starsky’s dark hair.

So close. So damn _close_. What’s a couple of beer bottles and cans and moldy food compared to having Starsky _alive_ and _loving_ him?

“Come on, you big lug, the bed’s ready.” He opens all the curtains and windows, then walks over to the couch and takes Starsky’s hands in his and hauls Starsky to his feet. “Or do you want to shower first?”

Starsky ruminates on the question for a minute, blinking.

“Shower.”

The lengthy yawn that follows brings a jauntier smile to Hutch’s face. Now Starsky looks like a somnolent child who’s one pillow away from slumber.

“Need any help with the bandages?”

“Nah. Not gonna wash my hair. I can take off the other bandages myself.”

“Okay.”

His smile lingers long after Starsky’s kiss of silent gratitude on his lips and pining glance at him as Starsky shuffled to the bathroom, and if anyone else had seen him sweeping the floor with a broom from a kitchen cabinet while smiling and humming to himself like he is, they would surely have thought him eccentric to enjoy cleaning up litter that much. The beer bottle shards are disposed of first into a half-filled trash can in the kitchen, then the moldy food (two slices of pizza in the living room, a half-eaten plate of spaghetti, more slices of pizza in the kitchen and half a loaf of bread and spoilt milk in the fridge) into a large plastic bag that he ties up and leaves next to the trash can. He has to squish two cockroaches under his boot in the kitchen, then another in the living room. Probably the one that had escaped from the pizza box. After finding an even larger, black plastic bag in a drawer in the kitchen, he gets down on his knees in the living room to begin the tedious task of plucking up every beer bottle and can, still humming to himself.

While at the coffee table, he hears the bathroom door opening and cranes his neck high enough to peer over the top of the couch. A smooth-shaven Starsky exits with just a rainbow-colored towel around the waist, reinvigorated and awake, and although it’s now irrefutable that Starsky has lost weight, Starsky has never appeared more gorgeous to him.

“You know what?” he says, eyes twinkling.

“What?”

“The only thing stopping me from pouncing on you _right now_ is your _couch_.”

Starsky’s coy smile is as radiant as the sunlight flooding the living room.

“Lunkhead.”

“Oh, so you’re going to _insult_ me every time I flirt with you, is that it?”

Starsky’s mouth opens, all set for a witty comeback, but no words issue from it when Starsky takes a good look at his spruced up surroundings. Starsky’s surprised … and not in a thrilled way.

“Starsk?”

With a solemn expression, Starsky points a forefinger at him and says, “ _You_ wait there. I’ll be right back!”

Yet again this morning, Hutch is beset by bafflement at Starsky’s behavior. He sits on his heels and scratches the side of his head. _Now_ what has he done?

In less than two minutes, Starsky is back from the bedroom, clad in a dark red t-shirt and black sweatpants. Wordlessly, Starsky kneels on the floor near him, then proceeds to pick up the bottles and cans on the coffee table, motioning to him to pass the black plastic bag in hand.

“Starsky, your _hands_ , the doctor said –“

“I gotta do this, Hutch. Okay?” Starsky’s got those puppy dog eyes on at full blast at him again. “It’s _my_ mess and it’s … you know, it’s cathordic.” Starsky makes a funny face. “ _Catadic_. Or something like that.”

“You mean, cathartic?”

“Yeah, _cathartic_.” Starsky resumes cleaning up, smiling to himself, knowing he’s won. “See, that’s why I need you. You got all them _big_ words in that pretty head a’ yours.”

“Compliments will get you nowhere,” Hutch retorts jovially, opening the plastic bag more so Starsky can toss the trash into it.

“Who says I wanna be anywhere else, Blondie?”

“Mushbrain.”

“Chowderhead.”

“Clown.”

“Bozo.”

“Lochinvar.”

“Kemosabe.”

“Mine.”

When their gazes lock, they grin at each other, Starsky chortling for the joy of it and lobbing a compacted can at him, and it is all Hutch can do to not choke up at the perfection of the moment. He smiles another time at Starsky capping the bottle of Jack Daniels and chucking it into the plastic bag. Yeah, he’s got a hunch that he won’t be seeing another drop of hard liquor in Starsky’s home for a long, _long_ time. Not if he can help it!

“Okay, let’s do this together.”

“Yeah,” Starsky murmurs, gazing at him with so much love, and after a chaste kiss over the neatened coffee table, they unclutter the living room and kitchen in a little over an hour. The results of their labor are two large plastic bags of trash and a valiant though failed endeavor at scrubbing the tarnished wall of the living room.

“Looks like we’ll have to wallpaper it. Or repaint it,” Hutch says while inspecting the stains.

“Yeah.”

There’s a tinge of lethargy to Starsky’s voice that wasn’t there before. Starsky’s frowning, but Hutch knows it’s not at him or at the wall.

“Headache?” he asks quietly.

Starsky sends him a guilty, sideways smile.

“Sorta.”

“That’s it, you’re done for the day. Go rest. I’ll take the plastic bags outside.”

“Hutch –“

Hutch presses a forefinger vertically to his lips and makes a chiding noise.

“Uh- _uh!_ Not a word. Now go _rest_. And here, take some painkillers if it gets too bad.”

He takes out the prescribed medication the nurse had given him earlier from his jacket’s inner pocket and gives it to Starsky. Starsky wrinkles his nose at it, but takes it anyway. Starsky had always disliked taking pain pills, even during his recuperation from the shooting at the Metro, and sometimes Starsky’s obstinacy about it had driven Hutch up the wall. He could never bear to see Starsky hurting. Still can’t.

“Yes, Ma,” Starsky mutters, eyes crinkled, earning himself a pinch on the nose.

Hutch doesn’t feel the toil of carrying three tied bags of garbage down the stairs and behind the apartment at all, not with the slap he got on his bottom and Starsky’s cackle still ringing in his ears. Back inside the apartment, he discovers Starsky reclined on the sofa, fast asleep. He caresses Starsky’s left cheek with his fingertips. Silly bear. Why didn’t Starsky sleep in the newly made bed?

It’s as suitable a time as any for him to take a shower too, and he goes to the bedroom and browses through Starsky’s cupboard, hoping Starsky has kept his spare clothes. He locates them in the second drawer, two pairs of shirts and a pair of jeans folded immaculately next to Starsky’s underwear. He’d presumed Starsky would have stowed them somewhere in the back of the cupboard, like he’d done with Starsky’s spare clothes. Somewhere Starsky would seldom have to rummage, but even the most slovenly of people require underwear. So for Starsky to put his spare clothes where Starsky would frequently see them … 

Hutch takes his spare clothes out of the drawer in an almost deferential manner, comprehending the magnitude of their placement. When Starsky made the excruciating decision to dissolve their partnership – and everything else with it – Starsky had no one to fall back on unlike him, he who had Stacey and then Callahan and Dobey and the other guys in their team. Starsky had no one and nothing except memories and material things associated with him. Things like the Falsa blanket from Mexico. Like his clothes.

_You got me now, Lochinvar. For always._

He is brisk with his shower, brushing his teeth at the same time with a spare toothbrush from one of the cabinets. He dries himself with Starsky’s towel and comes out of the bathroom after just five minutes in a blue-and-red plaid shirt and jeans. Although he has mild stubble, he’s hesitant to use Starsky’s shaver. He can always drive over to his apartment to retrieve his shaver and other toiletries if it bothers him later. And didn’t Starsky say he wanted to stay over at _his_ place? Or was that only because of the mess?

Starsky has rolled onto his left side in his nap, facing away from the bathroom. When Hutch approaches the sofa and sees that Starsky has drawn up his legs and tucked his hands under his arms, he shuts the living room windows then darts to the bedroom to grab the Falsa blanket.

“Thank you,” Starsky mumbles as he envelops Starsky in it, up to the shoulders.

Starsky’s frown of discomfort hasn’t receded.

“You still got a headache?” he asks as he kneels beside the couch, bending over Starsky with his left forearm between Starsky’s body and the back of the couch.

“It’s a little better.” Starsky tugs on his collar, eyes warm. “Come up here. Sleep with me.”

He smiles and says, “The couch’s not big enough for the two of us. I’d have to sleep on top of you.”

The warmth in Starsky’s eyes heats up with lust.

“You’ve done that before,” Starsky rasps, gazing into his eyes. Licking that full lower lip. So damn enticing, unearthing one of his most sacred memories with so few words. The memory of the last time they’d made love.

“ _God_.” Hutch trails his fingers through Starsky’s hair. “Do you know how _exquisite_ you looked that day? Waiting there on the couch on all fours, in your jacket and tie and _socks_ , begging me to _fuck_ you?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Starsky whispers, tugging on his collar with both hands now, tugging him down for a long, open-mouthed kiss that saps him of self-control. Starsky smells so _good_ after a shower, smells so good and _tastes_ so good, particularly along the neck, right over that pounding pulse that makes Starsky _gasp_ when he licks it. Oh, _yeah_ , thank the deity of beards that his five o'clock shadow is so fine since Starsky probably _won’t_ enjoy having stubble rash all over his neck and shoulders on top of frostbitten hands and feet and a headache –

“ _Ow_.”

 Starsky’s pressing the palm of his left hand against his temple, and wincing. Definitely wincing.

Hutch rears back in concern, his brows furrowed, then says, “Okay, that’s it, you’re taking the _pills_ whether you like it or –“

“Hutch … _Hutch_.” Starsky clasps his upper arms, not letting go even when he tries to stand up. “Blondie, it’s okay. It doesn’t hurt _that_ bad –“

“ _Starsky_ –“

“I mean it! It’s just … I think the headache’s ‘cause I’m _remembering_.”

Hutch sits back down on the floor by the sofa, nearer to Starsky’s head. As he cups the back of Starsky’s neck and massages it, Starsky murmurs, “It was just bits and pieces earlier this morning, but now … I think I remember almost everything from the day before yesterday.”

“You remember what D’Amato did to you?”

Hutch feels like spitting after saying the devious sonfoabitch’s name.

“I remember how and why we went up to the mountains.” Starsky blinks, then stares up at the ceiling, eyes tapered in concentration. “The Cap – Captain Lisner, I mean – told us that morning that we were to pack up and head back to HQ by the next day to be debriefed and all that. Our undercover job was really frustrating this time because we were trying to catch this weasel of a drug dealer who’s fucking paranoid about meeting _anyone_ and has a troop of armed bodyguards with him everywhere he goes.”

Hutch’s hand on Starsky’s neck goes motionless.

“The Fin?”

“No. A guy who calls himself Iceman Jones, actually. He’s been around for a while, controlling supply in the southeast end of the city. But the Fin?” Starsky’s eyes lower from the ceiling to an invisible spot on the collar of Hutch’s shirt. “I know about the … rumors.”

Hutch strokes Starsky’s right cheek with his thumb, encouraging eye contact.

“If you did, why didn’t you –“

“Set the record straight?” At Hutch’s nod, Starsky displays a despondent smile. “I dunno. I guess when you’ve got nothing left … ya just don’t care what people say about you or what happens to you anymore.” Starsky shrugs. “Who knows, maybe there was a part a’ me that _wanted_ to die.”

Hutch grits his teeth, a muscle tic in his lower jaw. Huggy had been _dead on_ with his astute observations on Starsky’s recent demeanor.

“Not anymore, right?” he asks faintly, his tone weighty with gravity that causes Starsky to gaze up at him with wide eyes.

They stare into each other’s eyes for a prolonged minute.

“No,” Starsky whispers. “Got everything now, don’t I?”

Starsky’s chest is solid and soothing under his cheek, rising and falling with stable breaths. Starsky’s arms are sturdy around and over his shoulders and upper back, cuddling him, sheltering him with a beloved body that has survived the impossible. A kiss on his hair makes his eyelids flutter shut, then open again. He stares through half-closed eyes at the space below the coffee table, at the photo albums amassed there, and marvels at the attunement of their lives, of their actions and contemplations.

“So what happened?” he murmurs, envisaging Starsky also sitting alone at the coffee table one night, perusing albums of photographs of them.

“I was in the bathroom. Washing up.” Starsky is toying with his hair, scratching the back of his neck. “When I came out, D’Amato said that Iceman Jones’ right-hand guy just called, said Iceman Jones wanted to meet us. That it was too good a chance to pass up. After weeks a’ trying to set up a meeting with the guy, I thought so too. When I picked up the phone to call the Cap, D’Amato said he’d already cleared it with him. And I didn’t question it.”

“Why would you? He was your … you should be able to trust your _partner_.”

Starsky embraces him ever more snugly.

“Yeah. I didn’t find any of it suspicious. D’Amato wasn’t acting any different. He just seemed excited about finally getting somewhere with Iceman Jones, ya know? If we got to cuff him, it’d be another successful assignment on our record.”

“Lisner did say that you and D’Amato did a good job on your first assignment.”

“He did?”

Starsky sounds pleased.

“Yeah, yesterday morning. He was in Dobey’s office, talking to Dobey about you and D’Amato going missing. Then Joey and I went in, and he asked me whether I knew where you were. When I said no, he told me to stick around at the Metro. That I could still be of some help.”

“Huh.”

Starsky now sounds mystified.

“What?”

“That’s weird, because he knows we didn’t, uh, split on good terms.”

Hutch shifts his head to press more of his cheek against Starsky’s chest, inhaling deeper. Starsky really does smell nice after a shower.

“You talked to him often?”

“I guess. Enough that we know a bit about each other’s personal lives. He’s a really good guy. He’s got a wife he really loves. They’ve been married for eight years, but she’s battled with cancer for the last two – no, wait, three years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, so was I. You shoulda seen his face, Hutch. Every time he mentioned her and the cancer, it was like he was practically holding himself in from exploding into pieces.” Starsky is stroking circles on his upper back now, holding him closer. “He said the only reason she’s alive is ‘cause he managed to get a really new drug all the way from Europe. Talk about love, huh?”

Hutch’s eyes widen upon hearing that. A really new drug, all the way from _Europe?_ How did Lisner get wind of the drug? And how much must it have cost Lisner just to obtain the drug, much less have it transported by express to the United States on his own dime? Multiple times, to sustain his wife’s life for years?

Talk about love, indeed.

“So anyways, D’Amato then said that the meeting’s taking place up in the mountains near Crystal Lake,” Starsky says, continuing his narrative of events that occurred forty-eight hours ago. “Iceman Jones apparently had a holiday villa somewhere up there and wanted to meet on his own turf, far away from the city. I didn’t really know the way, but D’Amato said he got the directions to the place, and I didn’t wanna leave my Torino in the bad neighborhood we were in so I drove while D’Amato navigated.”

Hutch’s lips curve up in a small, amused smile. When it comes to the Torino, some things really never change.

“We stopped in Azusa for lunch at some café that looked like it was stuck in the fifties. I was so hungry, I just ordered the first thing I saw on the menu and then zipped to the toilet.”

Hutch’s shoulders quiver with noiseless mirth. When it comes to Starsky and his black hole of a stomach _and_ his teeny bladder, some things _really_ never change. After Starsky gives him a pinch on the arm for his laughter, he asks, “So what _did_ you order?”

“I actually forgot until I went back to the table. Beef lasagna and hot coffee.”

“Was it any good?”

“Actually, it tasted pretty awful. Especially the coffee. So bitter.”

“Coming from you, Mr. I-Drink-the-Sludge-at-the-Metro, it had to be _truly_ awful.”

Hutch is bequeathed another pinch, on the cheek. He snorts against Starsky’s shirt, knowing that Starsky’s smiling as well.

“But like I said, I was _so_ hungry, so I ate everything on my plate and drank all the coffee. The waitress refilled the coffee for free. She had big bazongas and a nice cleavage.”

“Uh hmm,” Hutch mumbles, his smile turned into a smirk.

“ _What?_ ” Starsky pokes him in the side with a finger. “I can’t help it if big-breasted ladies think I’m cute and give me free coffee!”

“Be sure to mention the ‘big bazongas’ in your official report, okay?”

Hutch, still smirking, shakes along with Starsky’s torso as Starsky sniggers. Then, once they’ve calmed down, Starsky says, “At the time, I thought the food was what made me sick.”

All humor drains out of Hutch in an instant.

“Sick?”

“Yeah. I started feeling _strange_ when we paid the bill and left the café. I didn’t feel like _puking_ or anything, but it was like I was suddenly really _chilled out_ , like everything was hazy, like I was going to sleep. I wasn’t sure if I was even walking straight. I thought maybe _exhaustion_ was catching up to me, ya know? I hadn’t slept much before that. I knew I couldn’t drive at that point, not with all those _winding_ mountain roads, so I gave the keys to D’Amato and let him drive the rest of the way.” Starsky pauses, then says, “I felt _really_ sleepy … but I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t _focus_ on anything I looked at either. When I tried to talk, I wasn’t sure if I said anything. I don’t think I did, ‘cause D’Amato never spoke to me. He just … gave me hot coffee to drink now and then. From a flask.” Starsky pauses again. “Then before I knew it, the Torino was in a parking lot somewhere, and I could hear D’Amato talking to somebody.”

“Forest Ranger Gary Stewart. He saw the Torino at the Islip Saddle parking lot while on patrol and spoke to D’Amato.” Hutch has to stop grinding his teeth in ire to mutter, “The piece of _shit_ lied and claimed you were just ‘pals going on a camping trip’.”

“Oh. Well, I couldn’t hear exactly what they said. I tried to get outta the car, but I couldn’t _move_. I was having a little difficulty breathing too. Thought it was the thin mountain air making my lungs act up. I felt terrible by then. I thought … maybe D’Amato was getting help for me. But then I heard the other guy walking away, and D’Amato came back to the car and got me out and somehow I didn’t fall flat on my face. It was like … I’d follow whatever he told me to do without thinking. I was so outta it, I didn’t even react when I saw all the camping gear in the trunk I’d never seen before, and I just walked with all that stuff in the dark … all the way to the campground.”

Hutch lifts himself up onto his elbows on the cushions and gazes down at Starsky’s face. Starsky has blanched, those big blue eyes staring blindly into the distance until Hutch touches his cheek.

“He drugged me in the café, didn’t he? And with the coffee,” Starsky whispers.

Hutch presses their foreheads together, then says, “In a few weeks, the blood test will tell us for sure.”

“Oh, Hutch.” Starsky’s lush eyelashes brush against his as the tips of their noses rub together. “I dunno what I was thinking, separating us. We’ve always been good together, and even when we weren’t, there was always love cushioning us. Just figures I’d only really know what I had when it was _gone_ , huh? Getting partnered with D’Amato, who’s everything you’re _not_ , just made me miss you all the more.”

Hutch kisses Starsky in answer. Tender, enduring kisses that tell Starsky just how much the forthright, genuine declaration means to him.

Many centuries later, Hutch says into Starsky’s moist lips, “Let’s not talk about that helmet-haired jackass anymore. He’s not worthy of your sweet mouth.”

Hutch isn’t quite certain whether Starsky snickers at his comical depiction of D’Amato or at his flattery, but smiles regardless. He returns to kneeling on the floor beside the couch and reaches under the coffee table for a photo album.

“How about we look at two _really_ handsome, talented, smart cops instead?” he asks drolly, showing a mock haughty expression while flipping open the photo album.

“We’re so modest,” Starsky replies, utterly deadpan.

“We _are!_ ”

Starsky’s winsome face breaks into a humongous smile, and god, how does anyone _not_ break into a smile themselves upon perceiving such a thing of beauty?

With his legs folded, feet against the coffee table and knees up to prop the photo album, Hutch spends the next ten minutes spinning snarky commentary for various photos for Starsky’s entertainment, rejoicing in Starsky’s giggles, in the way Starsky has rolled onto his side so that his head and neck are supported by Starsky’s midriff and right arm, the way the Falsa blanket has enclosed him too. Rejoicing in the sensation of Starsky’s hand rubbing the center of his chest, staving off ice and snow from his heart’s summer.

When Starsky points at a picture and praises his physical appearance for the fourth time, he glances at Starsky with an earnest smile and says, “You know, we got to talk about you putting me on a pedestal here …”

“Like ya don’t do that to me.”

Hutch slaps one hand over his heart.

“Ah, you got me there.”

For that, Starsky raises his upper body enough to give him a doting peck on the lips, then lies back down.

“Smooth-talking devil,” Starsky murmurs.

“Lover boy.”

“Big blond beauty.”

“Foxy lady.”

“ _Hooch_ ,” Starsky says while making an exaggerated kissy face.

Hutch laughs and puts on a bad Russian accent and counters with, “ _Stareeevsky!_ ”

Starsky also laughs, then points at a picture of them with two blonde women who are _very_ well-endowed in the chest area.

“Speaking of blonde babes …”

“Ah, the Norwegian _busty_ twins!” Hutch says, recognizing the blondes he and Starsky had partied with on his thirty-fourth birthday at Huggy’s former bar and bistro.

“No, they were Swedish.”

“Uh, _no_ , they were Norwegian. From _Norway_.”

“Swedish.”

“Norwegian.”

“ _Swedish!_ ”

“ _Norwe_ –“ Hutch clamps his mouth shut for a second, then turns his head to give Starsky a mock skeptical look. “Wait a minute, are we actually _bickering_ over two big-breasted women we’ll never, ever meet again?”

Starsky’s lips are twitching.

“Well … they _did_ have very big _breasts_.”

Hutch rolls his eyes skyward. When he notices Starsky’s lips quavering more, he snorts and laughs, leaning into Starsky’s one-armed clinch.

“Where the hell did you _find_ them, anyway?”

Five entire seconds pass before Starsky mumbles, “Huggy.”

This time, Hutch turns his head very slowly, the expression of skepticism an authentic one.

“Huggy. _Huggy_ found you two _supermodels_. From _Norway_.”

“Well, he – he _said_ they were supermodels! That’s what they told him!” Starsky exclaims, shrugging and waving his hands about. “And anyway, it’s not like I was gonna turn down two hot ladies like that! They were right up your alley!”

Hutch places the photo album on the floor. Then, he pivots around to face Starsky, tracing the bridge of Starsky’s nose with his right forefinger.

“You know what _really_ got me off that night?”

“What?” Starsky murmurs, staring at him as if he is all that exists in the universe.

He traces Starsky’s lower lip next, from end to end, reliving how it feels against his own lip, on his skin, around his cock. How it looks when Starsky moans his name, when Starsky smiles at him.

“You. Seeing you enjoy yourself so much. Seeing _you_ come.”

His forefinger follows the bobbing of Starsky’s throat.

“It was the same for me,” Starsky whispers, an admission years in the making, and when Hutch climbs up onto the couch and lies on top of Starsky at last, it is with a love-heavy sigh, an entangling of limbs, and no opposition whatsoever to him kissing ear, temple and cheek while murmuring words of love. At last.

 

 

 

(To be continued ...)

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Translations**

 

From Dutch:

 _Stop de auto, politieman. Of ik schiet je._  
\- Stop the car, cop. Or I shoot you.

 _Nee, maar Hans zei dat hij moet heel, heel erg koud._  
\- No. But Hans said he must be very, very cold.


End file.
